Measured in Blood
by jakey121
Summary: They paid the price of glory with blood on their hands. Some shattered under pressure, others rose higher and become a beacon of hope amongst the Districts. Now they're going back into the Hunger Games, the source of their nightmares, and they must pay the price once more.
1. Prologue

**Chapter One.**

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**Measured in Blood;  
The 75th Hunger Games.**

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**Prologue – Marianne Denais, Capitol Escort.**

* * *

Down the marble path I walk, past topiaries and flowers brightening in the sun. A gnome with a squashed face guards the duck pond, the creatures within ruffling their feathers and picking at chunks of bread that float through the ripples.

I smile and relax into the light breeze, wallowing in the beauty. This is why I live in the Capitol, why I'd never trade my life for anything. It's for days like these, the simplest pleasures make all the difference.

My heels clack loud against the flooring, signaling to my arrival which a butler at the door immediately notes and comes waltzing towards me. With a simple bow, he reaches out a hand to help guide me along, slowly but surely.

"Thank you," I say, politely. We walk without conversation, but for this short journey, all the noise I need is in the nature around me. A bird chirps and lands in the brambles, burrowing for worms and shaking its wings to fly away. When the butler drops me off at the door, I almost feel a blossom of sadness.

I could watch the garden all day long and still not see everything. She has a fine establishment. _One you'd kill for if you had the chance._

She's quick to answer the door. My fingers barely leave the brass knocker and she throws it open, cream-colored face beaming with what I assume is delight. _Though with these people, can you ever be sure? _I'm one of these people, and smiling for the sake of upholding reputation is pretty much a second sort of life. Important for our profession.

"Marianne," she kisses one of my cheeks, tightly gripped onto my shoulder. "How lovely it is to see you." The other cheek receives a dainty tap with her purple lips, and with one arm, she links it through my own and the door slams shut on its own accord.

The entrance hallway is a diamond splendor: a chandelier glistening in the ceiling, paintings framed in the most expensive jewels, one even made of the little light stones. I immediately feel the very same sensation of envy I've always felt. District One not only gets the better tributes, but the escort gets the better life.

My cottage by the riverbed is nothing compared to this. The forest provides me with distraction, but at the end of the day, living in the center of all the hustle and bustle within the Capitol is important for one such as myself. Only, Denice is my 'friend', and for friends we do what we can to support them. This is her gathering, so here we all are, gathered for her attention.

Horatio immediately hops up on his skittish little legs, prancing towards me and enveloping me in his gangly arms. I pat his back and whisper my greetings, pulling away not too harshly and walking over to Colette.

"What a shit-hole," she whispers in my ear when we hug. I giggle, slapping her on the back and watching her bright pea-green face blossom with laughter. We sit down together, gossiping as we always do. Colette is the only mentor here who accepts what our social circle really is. Pretend formalities, manipulative men and women who would do anything to secure that all important Career district.

It's our very own Hunger Games in a way. Without the violence of course, but one such as Colette has been known for getting a previous Escort thrown into prison just to secure the District she resides over now. The memory brings about another grin, and when Denice steps up in front of the television, we fall into silence and wait for her to press the all important switch.

"Ladies and gentleman. It is an absolute honor to have you all here. Today the President calls upon the whole of Panem to watch what will be his finest hour. The reveal of the Third Quarter Quell and what the tributes will entail."

"Get on with it," Colette whispers, snickering. Denice shoots her a nasty glare, wiped off her face in a matter of seconds. It's practically second nature to clear all emotions and work out what face to wear for which occasion. Only Colette enjoys to rile up this prissy little busybody.

I shuffle backwards into the cushion, folding my hands over one another and wait for her to turn on the television. When it bursts into life, Horatio gasps with excitement, blubbering as if turning the power switch created some sort of spark inside that head of his.

"Horatio, dear." District Twelve's escort, garbed in black to represent coal, places a hand on his leg to settle him down. I meet her eyes and we share a smile. Unlike Denice who only invites her here because it's expected, I don't have any issues with her. She has Twelve of course, but she's new and sooner or later when some of us find newer and better professions, or in the case of Colette she gets someone incarcerated, she'll work her way up. I have no doubt about it.

"Oh my god, isn't he just dashing," Horatio almost faints into his cushions. Colette snorts, holding her nose when Denice once again sends her a threatening look. I nudge Colette who straightens up and watches the President step up to the podium.

He's dressed in the most splendid attire, suit sculpted against his frame, his porcelain skin certainly a sight to behold.

"He's much better than those old trouts," Colette says. Denice doesn't waste any more time on her, too enraptured into the scene as a cute little girl struts over to our esteemed leader, passing him the all important envelope. The one that seals the fate of those who will be reaped next week.

We love our tributes, or at least, most of us do. I understand everything that goes on; unlike poor Misty who thinks the Hunger Games are an actual television show, scripted and the tributes go back home to their Districts afterwards.

But it's entertainment, and a job. Income, friends, a house, all of it. I'm one of the popular people now, famous, known by the whole of Panem as a close and personal friend to Victors and the stars that don't quite make it home.

The President removes the sheet of paper from the envelope, glancing over the words. I notice the look in those blue, beady eyes of his. The sharp smile, the look of something we see in Careers, the more unstable ones. My hands tighten round the edge of the couch, creasing the covering. I'm scared and excited, a mixture of everything an Escort ever feels throughout their life.

"On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest amongst them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol-" Denice almost falls into the television the way she's leaning in her seat, but it's Colette I notice, face paled, her lips open with shock before he's even finished.

I want to ask what's wrong. But then I hear the words.

"-the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."

And there's the reason for the smile. A sly curl of the lips because of what it means. What killing Victors accomplishes. It shows the whole of Panem that the Capitol can do anything, that our power is whole and invincible.

Only this isn't right. And the room knows it when the television fades to a simple, black and grey screen of static.

Horatio sobs into his hands, the Twelve escort rummaging around in her purse for something to dab the tears away. Colette's face is resuming its usual colour, only it intensifies with red, filling her cheeks until she stands up and turns to me. A tear hangs on her eyelash, and all I feel is empty.

"They're going to kill people... people I care about. Victors. Victors, Marianne."

I nod my head, thinking about those tributes I've come into contact with, those that made it to the end and came home. Those people from the District I support, and not just that, but the other Victors I've spoken to and gotten to know as real, good people.

They're killing symbols of strength, so even the citizens within the Capitol know who is in charge and what they can do if they so desire.

Denice blanches at the room, jaw hanging open as her eyes land on the painting of her newest Victor, a shining jewel she cherishes.

"They'll kill her..." she hugs the lady nearest to her, a gawky little women with tiger patterned glasses who doesn't seem to know how to react. I wish I could be so distant from it all, disconnected almost.

The Districts believe we're nothing but pampered monsters from the city they so despise. But that's not true, we do care, we care more than we let on because these are real people going into the Games to die.

We put up with it because we like the Hunger Games. As wrong as they may see it.

These are our Victors though, our stars, our trophies of a job well done.

"They can't do this," Colette whispers, wiping her face with a cushion.

If only it was true. If only they couldn't.

"I'm afraid they can," I say, not to Colette, but to myself. "And there's nothing we can do to change it."

We're losing our Victors.

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**Below are the tributes chosen for these Games. Some of them have had to be allocated a different spot to the one mentioned on their form, others I'm afraid were not accepted and I'm very sorry for that. But these twenty-four that have been accepted should help to make this an exciting SYOT, so here is the list!**

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**Tribute List**

**District One:**

Male- Atticus Winston _(Flintlightning)_

Female- Astrea Cartelle _(Cashmere67)_

**District Two:**

Male- Lennox Delane _(jessicallons-y)_

Female- Avery Levine _(ImmyRose)_

**District Three:**

Male- Pontius Tesla _(Socially Awkward Wolf)_

Female- Mirah Surrett _(Lupus Overkill)_

**District Four:**

Male- Carson Demetrius _(PretentiousScholar)_

Female- Braelyn Lavelle _(LokiThisIsMadness)_

**District Five:**

Male- Caligula Wanders _(A Nihilistic Queen)_

Female- Hazel Finn _(StripedFuzzySocks)_

**District Six:**

Male- Veryan Armes _(The Lunar Lioness)_

Female- Autumn Mulone _(Acereader55)_

**District Seven:**

Male- Meridian Vaelin _(Elim9)_

Female- Erika Marsh _(SomeDays)_

**District Eight:**

Male- Cecil Aradan _(Chaos In Her Wake)_

Female- Preston Bostwick _(Little Blue Light)_

**District Nine:**

Male- Jonah Griffin _(hey-finn)_

Female- Amriel Chamblin _(Sunlight Comes Creeping In)_

**District Ten:**

Male- Tristan Booker _(Burning Stars)_

Female- Inara Sigmone _(Call Me Fin)_

**District Eleven:**

Male- Chilton Jones _(BamItsTyler)_

Female- Artemisia Amaryllis _(Aspect of One)_

**District Twelve:**

Male- Aedric Surran _(bobothebear)_

Female- Theadossia Burkehart _(Nrrrd-Grrrl-Meg)_

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**Welcome to Measured in Blood, a non-canon 75th Hunger Games. One of my previous SYOTs, Fight or Flight, took on the 50th Games with the same twist but was also non-canon so I thought I'd continue on with that and venture into the 3rd Quarter Quell.**

**On my profile there will be the blog link for the twenty-four tributes and each chapter I will ask some questions just to get your thoughts and opinions on certain aspects to do with this.**

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_**From the blog, based on first impressions, who are your favourites and why?**_

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**I'm excited to get this started, thank you once again for submitting, leave a review if you can just to show me you are actually reading, and I'll see y'all with the reapings!**


	2. Reapings: Part One

**Chapter Two.**

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**Reapings – Part One.**

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**Denice Everly, 28 years old;  
District One Escort.**

* * *

The cameraman starts to lose his balance, wavering on the edge of the stage with the wind a flurry against his overcoat.

With a scowl, I prance towards him and hoist him up with one arm, placing him steadily on the stage.

"You should be more careful," I eye him up and down once, frowning and wave him off.

The entirety of District One have already gathered, waiting patiently for the presence of the Victors. Nerves set my teeth to chattering, my knees knocking together under the frill of my dress.

Thankfully the breeze tearing its way through the District masks it as my excuse and I move back to my seat, crossing one leg over and trying not to focus too much on the way my throat seems to tighten with tears building behind my eyes.

Despite everything, I'll remain dignified. These may be my darling Victors up for the Games again, but we are poised and refined, elegant ladies and gentlemen of the Capitol. We represent the city these people look up to and for that, I refuse to disappoint the President in my moment before the country.

District One may be known for it's beauty, but it has nothing on the Capitol. Nothing ever has, nothing ever will.

Those garbed in the training uniform that have been the rage for so many decades stand seething, coiling hands round the rope that sections them away from the center of the Square.

_I know, I know my darlings. You want your chance in the spotlight. If only I could give it to you._

Finally, the Mayor exhales a sigh when the Victors appear through the central aisle. Onlookers watch them with mixed emotions. Respect, disgust, pride, love, admiration. I see it all on their red-cheeked faces, from the angriest trainee to the young men eying up my dearest Astrea and Irene. Some want to be them, others want to love them.

These are the pride and joy of my work and the escorts before me. Their bodies sculpted to perfection, their wits and intellect and strength stuff of legend amongst Panem. Even old Faris, eighty years old and leaning on a walking stick still manages to uphold the same sense of power he once held in his youth.

It almost brings forth the tears. _My Victors. My precious, precious Victors._

"Ladies and gentlemen," the Mayor clears his throat awkwardly, as torn up with the situation as I am. Luckily the man has his own sense of dignity and upholds himself, beginning the speech that I listen to with open ears, and the rest of this District close off to.

No matter who the tributes are, I have to remember what this year is. A Quarter Quell. Not many in my profession get to work through these special years. I need to focus, the number one lesson we're taught before joining this manipulative group of men and women: to close yourself off. If I fail that, then I am not the Denice that joined District One when she was fifteen years old.

The Mayor leaves to sit himself back down. The cameraman I helped raises a thumb, I note it quickly with my eyes, and up I jump towards the microphone.

With a glistening smile, I welcome them all, enthusiasm poured into each and every delicate word. The Victors watch me, the District watches me, the whole of Panem watches me.

"Time to reap our beautiful young lady."

The bowl has only three names in. Three fine representatives, any one of them who may be called upon to fight once more.

_Not her. Please, not her._

I unfurl the slip and call out, smiling, almost with relief: "Blanche Portland."

The stage is ready for the withered old lady, but it's not Blanche that moves, it's not the crone that comes to die.

It takes all my strength to not order her to halt. Astrea, my darling Astrea, the girl that sprints for the stage and offers me the most beautiful of all smiles.

"I am Astrea Cartelle. I won once and I assure you, I'll win again."

She poses for the camera, one hand on her hip and with a wink, flashes go off and she resumes the place she took those two years ago by my side.

It's almost too much to move on. I choke on a cry, seeing eyes staring up at me, a laugh trembling through the crowd. I cough loudly and giggle back.

"Sorry, moving on."

The District quietens down when my hand pulls out the next slip. A single sheet of white paper for one of the men. At least there's no Astrea Cartelle amongst them, no one of merit, no one I care for to the degree I do for my newest Victor. _No one I love._

"Atticus Winston!"

He's as quick to the stage as Astrea, taking the microphone and grinning for the cameras. He's strong, as strong as he was for his Games, but there's nothing there in those eyes of his. The charm he exudes is as false as his love for me and the Capitol.

"Astrea here may think she'll win, but don't count on it. I'll be your Victor. I'll make you proud."

_Not if I can help it._

Astrea will win. She won once, she can win again.

I don't care about vows and lessons. I care about Astrea. And if there's anything I can do to help her, she can guarantee I'll do it. To see her win, to see her alive and well.

It's all I want. And I always get what I want.

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**Cicely ****M****urena****, ****22**** years old;****  
****District Two Escort.**

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"It's not as easy as you think," I hum loudly, smiling into the deep blue eyes of the Mayor's son. He laughs, rolling his head back and planting a delicate kiss on my forehead.

The blush creeps up my neck, setting my cheeks ablaze. He notices and flicks my nose playfully, nuzzling my neck with those fine lips of his and clawing through my pink curls. I giggle, he laughs, and we continue to get on splendidly.

Two peas in a rather misshapen pod.

"I'm sure all that finger work is very, very difficult," his eyes sparkle with his comment and the blush only intensifies. _What are you doing, this is probably illegal or something? _

But illegal equals danger, and by all means, I love a bit of danger. What escort doesn't want to get their hands dirty once in a while, the tributes can't be the only ones who get all the fun.

My fun stretches out into a six-foot twenty-five year old, with hair like the sun and teeth to put my pearl bracelet to shame.

"You'll miss me right?" I pout. His eyes narrow and lips curl upwards into cheeks flushed with laughter. Another kiss and my stomach somersaults, love coursing through my entire body and filling it up with the sweetest of all sensations.

"Of course Cicely."

A sharp knock on the door jolts me up, snapping the moment and plunging me right back into the reality of today's proceedings. I clear my throat awkwardly, fumbling around and pulling my short green skirt further down my legs, brushing my pink curls with my fingers and yelping once when my ring catches and tears a strand out.

"You're a stressy girl."

I smile through a wince. "Part of the job hun."

I stand up and pat away as much of the creases in my clothes as possible. Unlike Denice, I'm not _as _dramatic over something looking out of place, but in her world, she expects it of us and I enjoy her parties.

Tears at the last one, what more could I want?

These are just Victors. They won once, one of them will win again. If Two triumphs, it only means more time with my dish on the side. I twist my head once, flash him a wink, and waltz out the door, fumbling my feet into the holes of my heels.

The entrance hall echoes with the sound of them clacking against the marble floor. A butler stands to attention, bowing and pushing open the vast mahogany doors, the breeze streaming through and attacking my skirt. I hold it down, eying up the strange little man who only blushes a shade to match my own.

"Don't worry, I'm awfully friendly." His eyes only widen, and with a chuckle, I continue through to the outside and walk on over to my chair placed to the left hand side of the stage. The whole of District Two, including the Victors, have found their place amongst the cobbles of the Square.

The Mayor gives me a rather angry sideways glance when he takes to the center and grabs the microphone.

"Oh, was I late?" I ask the air around me. Either nobody hears or nobody has the courtesy to answer a poor young lady. I shrug my shoulders and listen to the petty round man prattle on with tidings of prosperity and the wisdom of the Capitol.

The quicker these tributes die, the quicker I can arrange another meet up with my friend back there. Picturing him amongst the sheets... waiting... for me...

"Cicely," some posh little twit nudges me in the side. I blink back to focus, staring at the Mayor passing me the microphone.

"Oh yes, time to demonstrate that finger work of mine."

The bald man's eyes light with confusion, staring at me with his three chins wobbling. I have neither the time or the care to clear anything up. The District is too cold for my liking. Two slips, two Victors and I can get on that train and go home.

"First up we have," I tease the lip of the bowl because we always love a little bit of suspense. When no one buys it, I pull out the top slip and unfold it right up to my lips.

"Avery Levine!"

Amongst the five women standing in the Square, the youngest of them all moves to the stage at the announcement of her name. When her eyes meet mine halfway across the concrete, they narrow and with a shriek, the Mayor almost topples out that chair of his.

"I knew it!"

Someone laughs, but when Avery turns around to glare at the massive crowd, everything turns to silence. No one even breathes until she's standing by my side, angry of course, but rather too dramatic for my taste. I look her up and down, distastefully.

Yes, I remember Avery. The weird Victor.

The male name called out is drowned out with the shout of a volunteer. With only two males, the youngest of them all stares at the lean, broad-shouldered form of Lennox, his senior by five or so years.

Halfway up he stops again and I almost expect another outburst. He only laughs and shrugs his shoulders. "Uh, yeah, yeah I do want to do this." And he sets off for the stage, brushing past Avery who looks as if she wants to take a bite out of the poor, handsome man-child.

"Lennox Delane, at your service," he salutes and the crowd starts laughing, lapping his little show up like the obedient dogs they are.

"Marvelous," I cheer, clapping my hands once to bring the ceremony to an end.

The end. It's over!

Thank fuck for that.

* * *

**Misty Montaine, 39 years old;  
District Three Escort.**

* * *

I grip onto Miles' shoulder, leveling my eyes with his.

He shuffles awkwardly, cheeks tinted red. All around him, people continue to move towards the Square in their journey for the reaping. Unlike their dour, miserable selves all the other time, these people skip on the verge of running with their joyfulness.

They aren't up for the reaping now. Whilst a few send sympathetic stares towards the twenty-something Victor I stand with in the center, most are too stuck in their own sunny moods to pay him any attention.

"It's only a reaping, only the Hunger Games."

Miles' eyebrows shoot straight up into his hairline, disappearing amongst the mismatch of brown curls. They tumble down messily, bringing out the hazel in his eyes. For a man nearing his thirties, he's always been the innocent boy no one thought would ever win.

Not that losing is anything bad, people make too much drama out of this situation.

"Only the Hunger Games?" He asks with hesitance, nudging away from my grip and standing firm on the concrete.

"Yes, the Games aren't anything to fear."

"Aren't anything to fear?"

His eyes are wild with shock, but through his expression, it takes all I can not to burst out laughing. "Are you my parrot now, do you want to sit on my shoulder?"

A young girl with her pigtails swaying in the breeze starts to giggle next to me. When her mother realizes who I am, the smile is wiped clean and she grabs her rather harshly, dragging her around the corner and away from sight.

Honestly, some District folk are so rude. I'm nothing to fear. Like the Hunger Games.

"People die Misty," he adds with a tremble in his lip, as if on the verge of tears. His pessimism does nothing to knock my mood. The fact he allows himself to be manipulated so easily by what the Capitol wants him to think, it's ludicrous for such a smart boy.

"No one dies Miles. It's a television show. Twenty-four marvelous boys and girls are chosen and the Capitol just makes it look like they're being killed. It's called entertainment, duh."

"Are you for real?"

The snappish tone startles me. My smile wipes clean and a new frown takes its place. Although this is Miles, my dearest sweetheart, I jab a finger to his skinny chest and prod him backwards. The immediate sense of fear returns and he raises his own hands defensively.

"What did you say to me?"

His mouth tries to form words that rapidly shoot out in a mess of spit and incoherence. When ten or so more seconds pass, I lean back and smile, pulling him closer and linking my arm through his.

"The Games are a show, nothing more, nothing less. Those who don't "win" just stay in the Capitol. Didn't you know that?"

He returns my question with silence. I beam at him and strut towards the Square, arm in arm, my darling Victor and my cotton-candy hair a show for the whole District.

He takes his place next to a quivering Jovan, a shriveled raisin in comparison to everyone else. Individually, I send them all the most positive smiles I can. Each of them stare back with sour expressions, frowns and narrowed eyes, even old Maeve crying openly with those sparkling tears lighting up the flush in her cheeks.

The Mayor nods appreciatively to me. Miles can always be a handful, and with no Victor wanting to risk the chance of being late, they left it to me to fetch him. We've gotten along wonderfully for the last few years, ever since he's come to the Capitol to assist his little darlings in their trials through their time there. None of them have won, but of course, they're safe and tucked away, living their dreams in our esteemed city.

What more could they ask for?

I bounce over to the microphone when it's my turn to begin the main part of the ceremony. The Victors stare at me, centered in the Square with the ropes pushed all the way to the sidelines, this bunch of downbeat folk standing out like a sore thumb.

I try to smile for them, exuding my happiness for their sake, and pick the female slip from the two within the bowl.

"Mirah Surrett!"

Middle-aged Mirah, with her pretty hair and pale face walks towards the Square. She looks on the verge of tears, but keeps her lips tight together. At the foot of the stairs, she stops and closes her eyes, exhaling a deep breath and nodding to nothing in particular. When she passes me, she brushes past as if I was non-existent.

I make a mental note to berate her later for her blatant rudeness and move on to the male bowl. Miles looks one more time up at me, crying hysterically with Maeve trying to hold him upright despite her own mess of tears.

All this talk of death is too morbid for me. Lies. Deception so the Districts know to be scared. It's not true though, I stake my life on it. The Capitol simply wants them to know fear. They don't die. I know they don't.

It's just a television show.

"Pontius Tesla!"

The old man stumbles awkwardly to the front, hobbling with his age and grumbling under his breath. Crossing past me at the front, he shoots me a nasty look.

"Had to pick me huh? Couldn't go for that toyboy of yours." He barges past in his anger and stands there, fuming next to a struggling Mirah.

The two of them exchange a handshake and all I can do is look out at Miles, smiling in his relief.

_Toyboy?_

That's disgusting. Absurd. Revolting.

And yet, I follow the brown curls to his chin, that shy smile, wide childish eyes.

Maybe it could happen.

I shake my head, dispersing the distraction from my mind. I have a job to attend to. Pontius will make it hard on me, but thankfully there's also Mirah. She'll be easier.

The Districts are so dramatic. Someone's got to teach them the true ways of the Games. Somehow, I doubt that's going to be me, they never listen to poor ol' Misty.

* * *

**Horatio Reubel, 37 years old;  
District Four Escort.**

* * *

The Mayor stares at me, mildly bemused. I take a deep breath, inhaling the salty sea air, smelling the pride of Four, letting it fill me up to my head and letting it all out in a deep, pleasurable sigh.

"Done yet?" she asks, one eyebrow raised.

"Laugh all you want, but your District has never ceased to amaze me."

She brushes out the red curls from her shoulders, shivering as a throaty chuckle booms out of that pretty face of hers. "Smell all you want, the sea's not going anywhere."

It's my turn to laugh, which I do rather gladly, and when she offers me an arm, I hop to it and link through. My bracelets jingle with the light, crisp sea-air. The sky hangs above, a beautiful view of fluffy cotton clouds and birds chirping their songs to and fro. There's nothing quite like it.

I'm glad to be in Four.

The Head Trainer walks by, a massive hulk of a man, his bronze skin and tousled blonde hair shining in the sun.

Oh yes, yes I'm very happy to be in Four.

The Mayor notices me gawking and slaps me gently on the wrist. I gasp, slightly embarrassed and continue to walk up the steps and towards the microphone stand. The two bowls shimmer in the glare of the sunlight, and for a moment, the happinezz sizzles out. I stare once at the two bowls and then out at the Square, Kyron the old prankster the last one to limp along the Square and stare up at the stage.

I smile and give him a thumbs-up. His grin turns sour, and before the wrinkled finger fully opens up in a rather obscene gesture, the Mayor turns me around and pushes in the general direction of my chair.

"Rather than pissing off the people you might reap, sit down and wait your turn."

If it was anyone else, maybe I'd cause more of a stir just to prove I don't let people walk all over me and boss me around. I'm no second class citizen. No servant to anyone but the President, the embodiment of power, a hero amongst...

"Horatio," she shoves me again, quite harshly, and I walk over obediently.

I sulk, leaning backwards and watching her welcome each and every person to the reaping day. I bet I could deliver a speech that would shine just as brilliantly as that chap from earlier. She's a mildly amusing lady, but I feel her hand-print on my shoulder from pushing me, burning under my blazer.

I do not want to be ordered around by anyone.

When she's about to finish up the Treaty of Treason, signaling off with her all famous salute, I storm up and bump her to the left. When the crowd starts giggling, I look at the red-haired beauty and watch her skin ripen to a colour to match those fiery locks.

"Sorry, I was getting bored."

For a moment, the way her fingers curl, I expect a punch thrown my way. Typically, I'd order my bodyguard to destroy the culprit behind such an action, but with the sun a perfect spectacle in the sky, not even she will ruin this day.

"I'll get you for that," she whispers, brushing past me. All friendliness gone from minutes ago. No matter, I could try and have her replaced after this. The President respects my loyalty, surely he'd listen to my suggestions about how to make District Four even better next year?

"Anyway, now it's time for me, Horatio, to reap your lovely representatives for this Quarter Quell."

My eyes hover over them all, but this time, I keep myself calm. Unlike last week when I broke down into tears, I can't afford to come across as weak anymore. Not if I want to keep my job, something I'm very keen on doing.

"Braelyn Lavelle!"

The youngest of our Victors looks over at the row of her fellow companions standing next to her. Kyron gives her a sympathetic smile, tilting his head in the direction of the stage. Her mild shock is clear on her face for a second, and then the Braelyn we all know and cherish shines out, and the most perfect smile replaces the sense of fear.

"Brilliant!" she cheers, jogging up and shaking my extended hand. Her grip is tight, not to mention a bit painful. I'll wipe the anger from her soon enough, she'll realise it'll be good to be back in the Capitol.

"Thank you _so_ much for picking me Horatio," she squeezes my hand, walks behind me and I see the slight change in her eyes, but when I turn to pick the next tribute, she stands beaming out for the cameras. A perfect Victor ready to be thrown back into the Arena. Even if my hand throbs a bit.

"Jett Sinclair!"

The chosen young man looks at Carson standing next to him. When his eyes widen and fingers clench into fists, Carson takes a step forwards and places a hand on his shoulder.

Something goes on between the two of them, muttered words no one can pick up. My curiosity is piqued when Carson finishes the gap and Jett steps back with a watery grin.

"I volunteer," he states, calmly and collected. His eyes find Jett once more and he nods for the younger Victor, standing next to Braelyn and offering her a hand.

They shake and it's done.

My tributes for this year.

Shame it wasn't Jett, he's rather cute. Oh well, not everything turns out the way we want. This Quell a perfect example of that, something imperfect. Unlike Four, this Quell is not beautiful.

It's awful.

It's wrong.

* * *

**Marianne Denais, 26 years old;  
District Five Escort.**

* * *

The liquid scorches my throat, burning away the pain and leaving a satisfactory glow in my chest. Again, I take another gulp and the liquid fire travels past my lips, down my tongue and makes me want to pour another glass.

"Marianne, seriously?"

The Mayor's wife saunters into the room, her sing-song voice grating as the room begins to spiral. I hiccup, giggling and begin to pour more of the vodka into the shot glass, filling it to the brim, up and up and up...

"Great," she pulls me away, spinning me around until the floor meets my face. I kiss the carpet and roll around merrily, the bitter woman padding away at the spill on the table. "The one day of the year we need you normal and you go and drink yourself half to death."

"On the contrary sir," I gurgle, shakily standing up on my feet. "I've never felt more alive."

She rolls her eyes, taking away the handkerchief and discarding it into a trashcan by the table leg. I meet her glare, though the room continues to spiral and I'm not a hundred percent sure if I'm looking at her face or her legs.

Whatever.

Another hiccup shakes my shoulders and she groans. "What happened? You weren't like this last time I saw you."

_That's because, you stupid old bat, things were better last time you saw me. So much better._

"The Quarter Quell happened."

"The Quarter Qu-"

Someone clears their throat loudly, the pair of us interrupted and turning on our heels to face the newcomer. The Mayor tilts his head in my direction, then his eyes find his wife. She immediately blushes and glides towards him, nudging me with her arm and clinging onto his side.

"Marianne here is a bit... tipsy, I'm afraid."

He stares at me, that lopsided grin speckled with crusty old wrinkles that make him look double his age.

"Someone stole your hair," I blurt out, laughing and falling backwards again. When I look back up, staring through the drunken haze, they're both gone, a lone figure dressed in white moving towards me.

She helps me up with swift, gentle hands, patting down creases in my dress and staring up at me with frightened, honeycomb eyes.

"This year sucks, doesn't it?"

"I don't know what you mean ma'am." I notice the way her eyes look once down at the floor, then back at me. The smile plastered on her face is as fake as Horatio's new nose. I almost giggle again, but she isn't someone I'm deliberately trying to spite, so regardless of the alcohol coursing through my system, I try to uphold myself as she helps me walk through the door and out towards the stage.

Once I'm upright at the back properly, she leaves me to find my own seat. It's easier said than done.

Twice I trip over my own feet, barely managing to keep my balance and saving myself from disaster. The Capitol means so much to me, this job, this lifestyle... but so do my Victors. And it hasn't been the same since.

Colette's wasting away. Horatio squeals at the slightest disturbance. Misty is as confused as ever. I'm trying my hardest, and yet all I want is to grab another vodka and inhale it, sinking into the sweet arms of sleep and washing away forever.

The Mayor's wife stares at me angrily when I sit next to her. Her fingers brush past my ring, sending a tingle up my arm when she digs her elbow into my side and leans in close.

"Drink again and I'll have you packed off to Twelve," she threatens, pulling back and beaming at her husband. He's a droll old man, and once or twice I stare at that bald patch and barely repress a giggle.

"Marianne Denais, ladies and gentlemen."

The crowd clap a few times with no real heart. Who can blame them? Not everyone likes the Victors, but people respect them enough because of what they represent. It's wrong, so wrong. Unfair.

"Oh my, I'm honored to be here." I roll my eyes sarcastically, and in response one of the Victors standing central to the Square starts laughing, his shoulders bouncing as his body shakes with illness.

"Hazel Finn!"

The black-haired beauty stands rigid, staring around at her fellow Victors as if they can save her from her wretched fate. When the shock settles into her system, those blue eyes narrow and she takes quick strides to the stage, breezing past me and standing with her 'I-hate-the-world' glare plastered all over her pale face.

Serves the Capitol right. _Show them you hate them, Hazel._

"Caligula Wanders!"

The oldest of the mentors stares up at me, half-expecting that I've gotten it wrong with the way his eyebrows knit together in confusion. The youngest of the Victors, the only other male, whispers something in his ear and the poor man limps forwards. It takes a while for him to reach the stage, half his youthful vigor gone, but he offers me a sprightly grin and contrasts well with a fuming Hazel.

"District Five, your tributes!"

I turn to go, faster than I probably should be walking. When the doors breeze open, swaying back in the wind, the ground becomes a mess of lilac carpet and the grey stone of the walls. My mind goes black and down I go, down, down, down.

Unconscious on the floor.

* * *

**Colette Areles, 32 years old;  
District Six Escort.**

* * *

The rain pelts the mud, churning it around into thin, sloshy puddles. Those walking past in their rush to the reaping beat up the grass, sending rivulets of the mud to mingle with the water forming miniature ponds between the gravestones.

Carved into the granite is the one name that sends a punch in my gut. I stare at it through the blanket of hair clinging to my forehead. I make no move to brush it out the way. I simply continue to stare as the wind howls and the rain pours heavy against my sodden hair and dress that drips and splatters the mud.

"Davison Jay," I murmur the name, nothing more than a whisper.

He died last year. Another tribute that shouldn't effect me, another name to add to the growing list of those I've never been able to bring back. It's not just poor, frail Autumn. Strong, leader-like Veryan. Withered, cheerful Ileana. They aren't the only ones who struggle when a tribute gets murdered for this bloodsport.

Each cannon cracks and chips away at the armor I try to piece back together every year. Some people ask me why I still work here if it effects me as much as it does. Honestly, I have no answer. I work here because...

Who knows?

This is my job. That's all it is. The worst kind of job and I haven't got the courage to throw it to the ground and leave it a better person. Maybe that's why. I'm a coward.

"Miss, we have to get to the Square."

The gentle voice turned up a volume through the storm, almost blows past my ears. I want to ignore it and just remember this little boy cut down at twelve years old. I want to grumble and tell him to go away and never bother me again. Leave me with the ghosts and the rain.

Instead, I turn and walk towards him. He carries an umbrella for me, keeping his own grey overcoat and slicked back hair away from the weather. I brush past and set the pace in front, lengthening the gap and taking quicker strides.

I want to remember him before people forget who he was.

I want to go home, I don't want to pick these Victors who don't deserves their nightmares again. Not when some are still suffering.

The Square opens up, the buildings curving round into separate alleys and leaving the concrete expanse wide open for me. People stare and whisper when I walk past, a colorful disaster with the storm ruining my assistant's aid to make me fit for the cameras.

I've never cared about the appearances anyway. It's superficial nonsense when you're picking children to die. This time it's adults. Some say it's better, but they don't know the Victors like we do. What this will do to them.

The Mayor doesn't start straight away. I take my seat and offer him the curtest of nods, staring at the sea of children with the Victors central to the Square, waiting for the man who came to fetch me scamper up the steps and blush under that umbrella of his.

Once he's settled, the Mayor begins. It's a bore, like it always is. I cut out most of it, staring at the ground and picturing that gentle, innocent face. The kind of eyes that brighten with joy and tear up in despair. Pained eyes, dead eyes that closed for eternity when the Career cut him down.

Maybe that's why I hate Denice. She helps those kinds of kids. The monsters of the Districts.

He finishes his speech, staring at me expectantly for me to begin my part. I waste no time, as I did earlier, I half-run to the bowl and take the first slip that peeks up from the glass. The people in the center are a blur through the drops falling from the clouds.

A grey, drab, depressing blur when the name leaves my lips and one darkened stain moves forwards.

"Autumn Mulone!"

When she reaches the stage, her blonde hair disheveled round her shoulders, I see the smallest of smiles curled into her cheeks. It's the happiest I've ever seen her. And I know why.

"I'm sorry," I mutter when she passes me.

"Don't be. It's time."

Her gentle voice hurts my ears. Another knife to my chest when I take the male slip, stare at it and close my eyes tight.

"Veryan Armes!"

At the sound of his footsteps, I slowly peel my eyes open and stare at his strong face. A gentle, kind grin in the direction of Autumn, and then a solemn nod when he meets my eyes.

"I'm sorry," I repeat for Veryan. A ritual I've developed ever since I became an Escort.

My apologies can't make up for what I've done. They never can, they never will. But it's better than glorifying my actions with a smile. The tributes deserve to know I mean it, and these Victors as people I've grown to become friends with, they deserve it even more.

A sorry won't save your life. It doesn't make anything better. Veryan understands that, and yet he places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes it comfortingly.

"It's not your fault," he whispers out of the microphone's reach. The cameras snap and flash, clicking away at the three of us up on this stage. It must be hard with this storm, and the lack of vision is what I need. I don't want to get these two in trouble before it's even begun.

They know whose side I'm on. The side of these folk amongst me, the victims of the Capitol.

Maybe that's why I'm still alive.

A spark of hope that can easily be extinguished, a person of difference that can relate better with the tributes I call up to their deaths.

I'm the one that kills these people before they're cut down.

I'm the reason behind those gravestones.

The reason why I hate myself.

* * *

**And those are the first six Districts. Next chapter will deal with the final six and we'll move onto the Capitol to see POVs from the tributes themselves.**

* * *

_**Which escorts stood out and why?**_

_**Which tributes stood out and why?**_

* * *

**Yeah I changed the format for the reapings, gets to the Capitol quicker and I'll be giving each tribute 2 POVs rather than 1 reaping and 1 in the Capitol. Plus, I liked the few escorts from the prologue and wanted to show more of them.**

**Oh, also the blog has been edited to make the posts a bit bigger. Each tribute stands out more ;D**

**Thanks for reading!**


	3. Reapings: Part Two

**Chapter Three.**

* * *

**Reapings – Part Two.**

* * *

**Audra Monette, 40 years old;  
District Seven Escort.**

* * *

Through the branches of trees, the little girl drags me along, hand in hand. Her high voice takes to the air in giggles, her cheeks blossoming red as she weaves in between houses and alleys, pulling me with her, my lemon-colored wig and tiger patterned glasses jolting along.

"This way, this way!" she continues regardless of the stares, completely oblivious to the way some people leap aside with revulsion. The girl that likes the Capitol, loves it in fact. I'm impervious to their whisperings and tag along with her, let her dainty hand guide me with her towards the Square.

"Your grandmother won't be happy you're late," I laugh, knowing very well that Zara won't care in the slightest. She's too worried about leaving her intoxicated daughter with her curly haired, bouncing grandchild. The child who cares naught for dirt and scrapes and clings to adventure more than she does her own mother. If Zara is reaped, hopefully the father will step up. It's the least he could do for this wondrous child.

I'm like the Aunt, 'Aunty Audra', it has a nice ring to it. Every time I come to Seven, I'm here to meet and greet the Victors and their relatives.

And now, it's like I have my own tree-hugging, peace-loving family.

Through the tidal wave of adolescents, clinging to one another in their free-from-reaping relief, Susannah comes to a halt. Her eyes widen like saucers, staring at the Peacekeeper that towers over her. A tremble on her lip alerts to the tears brewing in her eyes, beads of water building up and threatening to fall.

"Excuse me, you're scaring my..."

He looks down, evil eyes behind that visor of his. I'm all for the President's authority, but these brutal security guards are nothing but bullies.

"Your what?" He spits, a little too snappish for my taste. I glare at him, straightening my hair and ignoring the throngs of District Seven's very own citizens crowding round us. Over his shoulder the Square is opening up, the majority of Seven dwelling there and waiting for the official opening time.

"I am not going to be late because of some great white oath standing in my way. Move aside or I'll have you executed."

I bite my lip, avoiding that sheet of black covering his eyes. Of course I couldn't have someone like him executed. Knowing these Peacekeepers, he might have me executed. I'd look awful without a head.

"Come along Susannah," I grab her poor little hand and hug her to my hip, resting my other hand protectively on her back. "This man won't hurt you."

When he barks an order at the crowd gathering, they dispel and shoot past us on quick feet. I watch them go and clutch to Susannah as best I can. She huddles tighter, enthusiasm gone in a second as she struggles not to cry. I can't blame her for that. The iron grip the Capitol has the Districts in is tightening as the days shoot by. Stricter Peacekeepers means the fear continues to spread like a plague. Growing ever worse.

Even in the Capitol we feel it.

But we don't call it out because we like our lives. And I do – no matter what people say and my own conscious whispers to me – enjoy my job. It's the best I've ever had and I can't lose it, not now, not for a long time. Colette may have had my sister thrown in prison all those years ago when she actually held a smile for the cameras, but I'm not so easily fooled.

Unless this poor, broken family is put under fire.

Then I don't know what I'd do.

Zara takes Susannah aside with a courteous nod. No one calls her out on breaking procedure. The grandmother and granddaughter hold each other tight when I continue up the steps and onto the stage, watching the Victors spread out in a row, united in grief and fear for the moment to come. They love and hate me. Love me because they know me for a real person, not a caricature with pearly teeth and a plastic face. But they hate me because of what I do each and every year.

I choose people to die.

The Mayor finishes his speech quickly, gesturing me forwards. When the crowd quietens down, the same Peacekeeper from earlier moves a little closer to the Victors than I'd like. I pull out the female slip quickly, hoping for it to be over as soon as possible.

_Please not Zara, anyone but Zara. Susannah will have no-one. I won't even be here to help her._

"Erika Marsh!"

I hide the relief before it shows itself, pushing it under fear for the chosen woman. She walks up with a startling expression overcoming those disconnected eyes of hers, wide and bloodshot when she stands next to me and finds her family in the sidelines. They call for her and her lips twist into sadness, a few tears pooling under her eyelashes and falling down her colored cheeks.

The next bowl only contains one slip. The elderly man stands waiting for me, close to Zara with Susannah holding his hand tight. He smiles at the girl without a trace of sadness, knowing his fate but also the temperament of the child. He doesn't want to upset her. He doesn't want to upset anyone.

"Meridian Vaelin!"

He nods to himself, hobbling on his old legs and crooked joints. It takes longer than Erika but he manages himself better, beaming for the Square, exuding his infectious optimism. He goes to his death and yet he can hold his smile.

The District will mourn Meridian Vaelin, he's been good to them.

Susannah opens her mouth, closing it when the tears come for the man she calls 'Grandfather'. Erika gapes at her family, brushing at her cheeks and trying to stay on strong legs.

District Seven doesn't stand a chance.

I know it, and they know it.

It's only a matter of when, rather than if they die. I hope they don't linger in pain. These are good, true people.

But they're the types to fall apart in the Games.

And these two have to go through it again. If only I could change the rules, I'd do it in a heartbeat.

* * *

**Sian Amaris, 48 years old;  
District Eight Escort.**

* * *

Above the smog pumping from the factory chimneys, the rain clouds grow ever closer. I pull out my umbrella just in case, laced with ruby colored frill with the jewels inlaid within every fold in the material.

With a snap of my fingers, my assistant comes closer, bringing with him two simple, stark white gloves. I pull them on, stretching out my fingers and offer him a polite smile.

"Come along, we have business to attend to."

The car door opens up for me, and at that, the clouds above shed the rain and let it pour down in sheets of thick, heavy drops. They splatter the concrete, puddles forming between the cracks almost instantaneously. Luckily, I'm well within the leather confines of the car to be battered by the water. My umbrella seats neatly next to me, ready for my arrival in the Square.

The sooner I'm away from this poxy District, the better.

"Disgusting," I murmur under my breath, not to anyone in particular. The wind howls against the car windows, the rain accompanying it in a joint attack. I groan and roll my eyes, tucking in closer to the warmth the leather seats provide.

"Remind me next time Bolton, if that sprightly chap on the television says it's going to rain, to send my daughter in my place. I hate bad weather."

The rain isn't the only thing putting a downer on my mood, though. It's the whole idea of having to come back to Eight. I hate my job purely because I despise these filthy, disease-riddled Districts that squirm under the power of the Capitol and do nothing but rebel and cause uproar whenever we get a little bit harsher.

As if they could ever win a full-out war.

I do my job because it's money and recognition. The tributes mean nothing to me, sure I've brought home Victors, but the second they land back in Eight, that's it. I'll greet them politely when I'm forced to make their acquaintance, but outside communication when it isn't necessary?

Absurd.

They may be Victors, famous in the Capitol, darlings of my dim-witted friends. But they're still from this foul District. I refuse to become close to any of them. Otherwise, who knows what I might catch?

The rain doesn't seem to relent at all when we drive closer to the Justice Building, a concrete splendor amongst these shacks we weave around. The road is dirty, a rat or two scurrying away from our tires.

I'd have at least thought Eight would try and mark my arrival by cleaning up a bit. I suppose common decency is beyond their brainpower. The sooner this is over with the better, it's not like any Victor from Eight has a chance at making it out alive.

Might as well cart them up, shoot them in the face and be done with it.

I like the Games as much as the next person, but that's when there are actual, able-bodied teenagers fighting for their survival. Not middle-aged men and women who don't do anything but eat and complain about how their lives are full of misery.

"Ma'am." The chauffeur nods when we pull into the spot waiting for us. I shake my head, trying to at least put in some kind of mood that will help when I have to smile in front of all their faces. Though, with the rain pouring as harsh as it is, they might not even see me through it.

All the better, at least the cameras will show me in the Capitol. That's all I really care about.

When I arrive up on the stage, the Mayor is already halfway through her speech. She's an impatient crone, dithering on about nothing in particular. Talk of war continues for another ten or so minutes, repentance and death and all those morbid topics. I listen in only for my name, and when it's announced, I jump up and plaster the smile we were taught to wear as easily as any dress.

"Welcome one and all."_ If I could hear this false voice, what would I be listening to?_

The slips within the bowls are sodden through, the black text showing through the paper. Taking care I don't rile up the anger of the President, I do not look when I take out the female slip. None of these Victors I particularly care about, but if I were to choose someone, it would be someone younger than the others. But I don't cheat, and when I open the name, I call out almost automatically:

"Preston Bostwick!"

The oldest female Victor we have, looks up at the announcement of her name. I repress a groan, smiling when she takes confident strides up to the stage. Even when her daughter cries out her name, gripping to the rope until her knuckles turn white, Preston maintains her composure and the wicked smile on her face.

"Nice to see you again, Sian." I nod, feeling her presence to my left side, and walk to the bowl to choose another slip for the male tribute.

The only two males are the old troll, Caspar, or the middle-aged Cecil. Not great choices, but thankfully I see the name, and read it out loudly.

"Cecil Aradan." At least it's the youngest of the two.

Children call out his name when starts walking to the stage. He has no offspring of his own, but still, they shout his name and beg him to walk back and take his place. They're foolish for thinking that's even possible.

Cecil holds his head high, but there are tears filling his eyes, falling down his cheeks a brighter light than the rain.

When he steps to my other side, he shakes his head, his hands balled into fists that hang tight by his hips. He's angry and sad, too emotional for my liking. At least Preston holds herself better, smiling with her daughter's voice still calling through the storm.

"You two will do as I say, now walk please, slowly and calmly. No more crying Cecil."

The two comply without hesitation. I care naught for their feelings or whatever's going on behind them. It's their future that should matter to them. I'm not too caught up on caring for their deaths, but we'll see what happens.

The greatest of all Victors will sit nicely against my name.

Maybe I should try, just this once. It might do me good.

* * *

**Christian Tellier, 32 years old;  
District Nine Escort.**

* * *

The golden-haired boy screams sharply, the spear lodging deep within his throat. When Devi from Seven, the newest Victor, pulls the spear loose, a jet of crimson spurts and drenches her from chest to waist. With a groan, she whips her hand out and wipes the spray away from her chest. A few drops splatter out and then she goes off, heading for the brunette girl from Nine and taking her through the back.

A minute into last year's Games and Nine are out for the count. Dead. Two more graves, coffins buried in the ground and left to waste away for eternity.

Two families to mourn and never fully recover, despite false smiles and acts of bravery.

"Is it really appropriate to want to watch this, Eithne?"

The thirty year old Victor turns to me, the sounds of more screaming and death flooding from the speakers. I grit my teeth when I catch a glimpse of the District Two male, skinning the child from Eleven piece by piece as she cries for mercy.

Last year's Games were horrible.

"No it isn't appropriate," she frowns, leaning further into the armchair. "But if I'm going back into that Arena and Devi comes too, I want to know about her. I've been watching each and every Games since the Quell was announced. I don't plan on dying."

I concede with a nod of my head, digging in further and trying to peel my eyes away from the screen. It doesn't work, because regardless of me being squeamish, the Games are entertaining. Perhaps the murder is a bit much, but the before parts when they're dressed to perfection and ease into the public eye, are my favourite. Or the parts in between the murder, the cementing of friendships and watching hardship take its toll, seeing relationships strengthen and others collapse in on themselves.

The beauty of the Games is in the way the tributes react, grow stronger and develop as individuals. They die, and one comes out alive, but I try to focus on the fact it builds character and shows people what they can really do when they're forced into such a situation.

Eithne deserved to win, when it was her year. She was a focused young girl, and I do hope she isn't reaped today. I don't want to pick her name from the bowl, we've gotten close, closer than Escort and Victor probably should be. My best friend in some respects.

"We should go, the Mayor will be waiting."

Eithne's taken up residency inside the Justice Building, only for the past week where the records of all Games are available at a moment's notice. The Mayor could have tried to turn her away, but with his father newly deceased, our Mayor stands in the shape of a fourteen year old boy. Without a mother, the weight has fallen on his shoulders.

Nine sticks to it's familial legacy, and he's a kind young boy. He'll grow to be an honorable Mayor.

She clicks the television off, sighing and patting down the floral dress that falls down past her ankles.

"I hate dresses," she murmurs when she almost falls flat on her face. I hold onto her hand and help her along. She's a stubborn woman, she doesn't say thank you, but I know the gratitude is there, somewhere deep under all that worry and fear.

Even if Eithne isn't reaped, she forms connections quicker than most. She has Victors out there she's mentored, people who helped her when she came home alive. No matter what the results are of today, she will suffer. And I can't be here to help if she isn't reaped, only in her upcoming death can I be there to support her through her troubles.

Nine is darkening with thick, grey clouds looming from the horizon and spreading at a faster rate. The mood is sour enough, it hits us full on when we step out and Eithne apologizes, walking away from me and down the steps to join the Victors in the center.

"Sorry for being late," I say in the direction of the red-faced young boy. He shakes his head, dismissing my apology with a smile and begins the speech. He fumbles over words, but there's heart in it and he delivers it powerfully enough.

I grip onto his shoulder, squeezing it once when it's my turn to walk up.

We swap places and I walk closer to the female bowl, Eithne's name somewhere within those slips. Even if it isn't her, this is a sad day for District Nine.

"Amriel Chamblin!"

It isn't Eithne, but her face scrunches with pain when I find her eyes. The youngest of our Victors, mentored by my best friend.

The young girl moves forwards, slowly, with tears brimming in her eyes and falling freely down her cheeks. The crowd stirs uncomfortably, watching her cry and me help her up when she reaches the top of the steps.

"It's alright, Amriel, it's alright."

She manages a small smile through it, but still she cries. For her life and the death waiting for her in the future. She made it through once, but chances are she won't this time. I wish I could save her, somehow, someway.

She takes her place next to me, smiling and crying, all emotions showing. I pull the next slip out and walk back to the microphone, clearing my throat and reading for the entire District:

"Jonah Griffin!"

The youngest of our males stands shakily in the center. I watch his eyes shut tight, face scrunching with pain and confusion. Amriel shakes where she stands, sobbing with her face directed towards Jonah.

When his eyes open again, his first step is clumsy and he almost falls over, twisting his feet around one another.

His hand raises, a thumbs-up to show he's heard his name, and slowly he steps closer and closer to his fate. He shakes his head a few more times, closing and opening his eyes, completely horrified and yet not shedding a single tear.

Once on stage, he grips hold of Amriel's hand and squeezes it. Together, they raise their arms in the air, showing unity and pride despite their perilous circumstance. Jonah's face paled entirely, Amriel with tears brightening her eyes.

And then Eithne, staring at the two tributes she mentored herself, breaking down when they turn to go.

I wish I could run and comfort her, tell her it will be okay.

But this is Eithne, and she knows the truth of the world. Nothing will be okay.

Nothing is ever okay.

* * *

**Quentina Phillipe, 30 years old;  
District Ten Escort.**

* * *

"You have got to be kidding me."

I raise an arm, slapping it against my hip. "What, it's fitting."

"You're dressed like a cow."

I puff out my chest, laughing. "A wonderful cow, thank you very much."

The bell rings against my collar, _ding-a-ling, _repeating itself.I pat my white and black spotted one-piece suit and prance along. I'm not entirely show how a cow walks, or sounds for that matter. At least I look the part, that's more than can be said for the other Escorts. If I were in Eleven, I'd dress up as a scarecrow. In Three, maybe a giant electrical chip.

It's called festive spirit. Some have it, others sadly do not. I'm the kind of girl that pushes the boundaries, determined to show the Districts that a little bit of energy can make all the difference. Floral dresses and simplistic jewelery do not strike out as anything meaningful.

But this, dressing up like the very District I work in. It shows pride in Ten, shows them I am theirs and they can rely on me. I've brought back a Victor before and I can bring back another one. The Victor of all Victors, a title worthy of District Ten's finest. Worthy of me, Quentina Phillipe.

"If you're going to walk like that, take a step back, wait ten minutes and then carry on. I can't be seen with you."

The Mayor's daughter is an amusing character. Her loyalty lies with Ten and the Capitol, but there's a certain disgust towards the people who live in the city lurking in those eyes. Whenever she looks at me it's with contempt, or opens her mouth it's to spit out something harsh or sarcastic.

I'm ten times the woman she is, and far too mature to succumb to such meaningless insults. I could hurt her just as harshly, knock her to the ground with my bell and moo all over her. But I won't. Maybe I'm dressed up like an oversized cow, but I am not going to stoop to such a low level.

I bring cheer, not brutality.

"My dear, if the cameras see you scowling, you'll ruin the positive vibe we are trying to set on reaping day. Be joyous, smile for your District."

Her nose scrunches up, the wind lashing her cheeks with her hair a tangle behind the back of her head. The top of my outfit protects my curls from ruffling up, but she doesn't seem to care as we continue to walk, side by side despite our differences. She came to escort me from the train ride as I prefer to walk and soak in the District Ten air, it's better than a limousine taking me to the stage.

I am Ten's support. My loyalty is to them and the Capitol. I am part of this District, I need no car to speed up the journey.

"If the camera sees you dressed up like a cow, next year you might not have the chance to try again as another ridiculous animal. What was it last year? A sheep?"

I nod and continue smiling. Some of the crowd around us disperse, gawking at me amused, or just as annoyed as Esme. We're near the hustle and bustle of the center of Ten, the hill taking us down the cobbled road and the Square peeking out from the middle of it all.

"Yes a sheep."

She snorts derisively, nodding her head. "Next year, try something called a dress. You might even look good in one."

"Believe you me Esme," we start to split the distance between us, Esme going one way and me up the steps, but my voice carries over the silence, "I look good in everything."

The Mayor welcomes me with a kiss on both cheeks, squinting at my costume but saying nothing of it. There's a murmur spreading through the crowds on the side, but they're used to me now, and some even cheer my name when it's my turn to take up the microphone and begin the reaping.

"Thank you, thank you."

They may see me as a joke, but I will care for them to my dying breath. My farmers, my cowboys and cowgirls, my bundles of joy. Ten is my whole life.

The five Victors stare up at me, a mixture of all emotions.

When the first slip leaves the bowl, a hush spreads through the Square and everything but my bell ding-a-linging in the breeze has fallen to silence.

"Inara Sigmone!"

A kind and gentle man walks up to the stern-faced lady. He offers her a hand to accompany her journey to the stage. When she shrugs it off, setting her lips in a line and glaring at me all the way, a chill rakes down my spine. Inara wasn't always so cold. But now, it's as if she's cut herself off from the very District that does its best to help her.

I'll do what I can for her, no matter how she treats me.

My fingers pull up one of the two male slips, uncurling it and frowning when I read the name.

It had to be him.

"Tristan Booker!"

The only Victor I've brought back myself with my years of service to Ten, stares up at me, his handsome face overcoming with shock and then acceptance.

When his lips peel back into a dazzling smile, the crowd lap it up like they have done with Tristan's behavior since he came back those three years ago. He carries the smile all the way to the stage, shaking Inara's hand courteously, hiding the sadness when he steps to the other side.

Inara breaks for a moment, frowning and wiping away something in her eye. If there was ever a person to break down what Inara has, it's Tristan.

Inara mentored Tristan to his victory. And now they must fight one another, only one left to come home.

I wrap up the ceremony, a little less happy than I was walking in. Tristan and Inara whisper on the way into the Justice Building, ready to say their goodbyes again, the goodbyes they never thought would end up temporary the first time, but this time, knowing for one of them it will be as permanent as the love I have for them both.

If only I could bring them both back, I would, I'd do it again and again.

I love District Ten, I love it with all my heart.

* * *

**Xavier Nelson, 40 years old;  
District Eleven Escort.**

* * *

With the sun a speck in the bright blue sky, the crowds of Eleven move thickly through the alleys of their District. I join them, ragged without my dyes and jewel encrusted garments. They accept me as one of them, unaware of my true identity, a member of their community.

Other Escorts are all for District loyalty, but I enjoy taking it a step further. Like an undercover detective, I join the swarm of dark and light skinned children, wading through these disease riddled streets without a care in the world.

One of them offers me a half eaten apple, overripe and sodden between my fingers. My stomach protests against it, but I scoff it down all the same, the sweetness bringing tears to my eyes. He grins at me, the poor little boy, and turns to run away with two malnourished girls clinging to his arms.

A rather odd looking family walk closer to my side, huddled in tight, clothed in nothing but dirty strips of cloth tied around their bodies to protect their modesty. I stare at them, pity blooming in my heart. My coins and luxuries are left in the Justice Building, here I am nothing but a tanned man, mud clinging to his hair with a simple baggy white shirt and torn shorts.

The heat is astonishing, but I'm not going to cross the line that the rest of Eleven don't seem to mind. I'm not _that _dedicated to living Eleven life like the natives that dwell here.

"Can you believe it though," the youngest of the family mutters, high-voiced and happy all bundled into one. "Can you believe we're safe this year?!"

"I feel bad for old Sinead, and those two youngsters, Chilli and Art."

"Chilton," the young boy corrects the wrinkled old lady, herding the group further down the streets.

"Chilli sounds better." Her laugh is wheezy, and twice she has to stop to cough into the blanket wrapped tight round her arm. The younger boy, an older man and a little girl help to move the procession forwards. Some of the more lively members of Eleven are moving closer with the time, pushing at the back to get a move on.

Best not to be swept under their feet. I'm not as young as I used to be and my life in the Capitol tends to stay away from the whole idea of exercise.

Once the crowd starts to fan out through separate alleyways, all leading to the same destination, I pick up my pace just a little. Peacekeepers eye me up the same way I look at my food. One stern-faced young man gives me a slap on the back of the head when I linger too long. I soak in the pain and walk faster and faster, head high with the sun now blazing high above our heads.

Sweat pours from my forehead, and yet I do nothing to unwrap myself. Hidden underneath the material I hold what I need to get up on that stage.

They're not exactly going to just let me, a man dressed like the poorest of the poor, stay on the stage.

I bite my tongue not to laugh, and once the Square comes into view, I avert the tables at the front and walk closer and closer towards the two bowls perched on the edge. People already packed in stare at me, laughing and pointing.

The three Victors: Sinead, Chilton and Art watch with wide eyes when a Peacekeeper sprints towards me, shouting and waving his baton.

Once I'm actually on the stage, all faces turn to me and stare at my muddy, filthy form.

"Greetings, my name is Xavier Nelson, as I'm sure you all know."

Someone snorts, shouting out: "You can't be!"

The little boy with the apple stares at me, clinging to the sidelines closer to the stage because of the size of him and his sisters.

A Peacekeeper grabs my arm and that's when I pull out the single sheet of plastic, showing my face, ID and everything to prove I am who I am.

"I just wanted to see Eleven as it really was, can't blame a guy for being curious?"

Once the buzz dies down, the Mayor starts and wraps up his speech almost too quickly. People still gawk at me when I walk up and take the first slip in the bowl. Chilton stands between the two ladies, composed and waiting for what is coming.

He knows it's him.

But first, the female.

"Artemisia Amaryllis!"

The younger Victor starts walking, mechanically without anything showing on her face. Unlike Sinead who cries with both sadness and relief, Chilton whose smiling, Art hides everything away. Or maybe there just isn't anything there for her. She's been like this for so very long.

The young boy from earlier calls her name. Before she reaches the steps, she squeezes his hand comfortingly, patting the top of his head.

She's a good woman, but even through her kindness, she's as expressionless as she's always been.

Once she's by my side, I take the one and only slip in the male bowl, and read out:

"Chilli-ton Jones!"

The grandmother from before, closer to the stage as well, giggles to herself at my mistake. The muscular Victor blinks at me, confused and laughing all at the same time.

"Chilli Jones, that has a nice ring to it."

He takes confident strides up to the stage, swaying his arms and planting a delicate kiss on Art's cheek. She stares at him when he takes his own place by my other side, his smile contrasting completely with how Art holds herself.

One numb to reality, the other playing the crowd with cheers and laughter. When the time comes to walk away, he falls silent, and that's when I realise the true sadness there.

He's learnt to accept his fate this past week, but still it's hit him hard.

"I'm sorry Chilton," I must look absurd walking next to such a groomed young man, and me garbed in rags and filth. But he appreciates it, and even Art manages to look in my direction when I try to comfort her.

"I'll do all I can for you two, I promise."

Will that be enough?

I doubt it, I really do.

It's never enough.

* * *

**Rianna Auclair, 19 years old;  
District Twelve Escort.**

* * *

I turn round and round, light-headed and giggling with my dress rising, black waves swaying up and down.

"You look beautiful." My assistant stands to my left, staring at me, her reflection awe-struck. The black continues to rise and then, when I stop twirling, it flutters gently down and falls against my legs.

"It's perfect," I smile, clapping my hands together.

"Is black your favourite colour ma'am?"

Ma'am, it feels so weird to be called something so... so regal. Last year I was nothing but a student, learning through school. Then, when the opening presented itself, dreaming like any schoolgirl about fame and fortune, I applied. I never would have thought I'd be here now, standing in Twelve, two years in with the most perfect of dresses and cameras waiting to snap and flash at me.

Me. Rianna, the Escort to District Twelve.

"Please, call me Rianna, or Ria, that's what my friends call me."

At the idea of being called a friend, she lights up, rosy cheeks and all.

"I prefer pinks and purples, reds and yellows, but black is fitting don't you think? The coal District, Twelve is now my own quaint little society, I must honor it in what I wear."

I've been told how to present myself, taught by none other than Denice Everly, star to the Capitol. District One's very own Escort. She's been my idol ever since I saw her on that stage, calling forth the tributes, two years ago announcing the name of Astrea Cartelle, my favourite of all the Victors. She's a bit cold towards me at times, but I'm aware of how it works.

Colette and Marianne told me when I was appointed. The way each of them work. Horatio with his exuberance that sometimes becomes so suffocating you either calm him down or leave the room. Denice doesn't respect anyone that doesn't lead Careers, but she's the unofficial leader of our profession.

I won't disappoint her, I didn't last year and I won't this year!

"Do you know any of the Victors ma'a- Ria?"

I pat down my dress, slipping into shoes made of the clearest glass, decorated with swirls and diamonds that jangle on their little threads. Looking once more in the mirror, I nod with pride, and turn to walk with her out through the door.

"From Twelve? I know of them, but I've never spoken to them except for Cady. From the television though, oh how Thea makes me laugh. And Aedric, he's a charming chap. Then there's Cady, she's a bit much but kind, definitely kind."

My cheeks warm up with each step. I'm learning, but there's still so much more I need to fill my head with. Stage-fright is the one thing we have to leave behind on the very first day, and I'm still not quite there yet.

Butterflies swarm my stomach, somersaulting and tightening my throat up with nerves. My assistant notices this and walks in front of me, halting our walk and clinging to my sweaty hands.

"You're beautiful, confident, happy, loveable. Don't worry, you did great last year and you'll do even better this year."

I close my eyes tight, shaking my head. _If you aren't confident, you're nobody. A girl __sent in the application, dreaming of her future__, and a woman now __stands, taking it and owning __what's to come._

When I open them, my stomach continues to flip and squirm and make my palms brim with sweat, but I manage to hold myself and walk with my head high.**  
**"I hope Aedric isn't too upset, knowing he's the tribute no matter what," I mutter when the first set of doors open. Maids and butlers and all manner of servants scurry about like ants, the twin doors at the front opening to reveal the backstage of my destination.

"I heard he's handling it rather well, considering everything."

"Good," I nod, smiling. Last year's tributes made it hard on me. Considering I was the same age as the pair of them. "That's good to hear."

She leaves me there, her occupation demanding service of her within the Justice Building. The whole crowd of Twelve stare at me, occupying my seat. The Mayor's children come out last, running around with cheers and cries of play and laughter. He manages to settle them down, blushing through it all, and then begins his speech.

I'm hooked to each and every word. It's something I've heard before, but there's a beauty I still find hypnotic when being right in the thick of things.

Twelve may be looked down upon by other Escorts, but this means more to me than anything. Twelve is my second home, and I'm more than happy to be here. Nervous, but happy.

"Good afternoon, District Twelve!" I beam for the cameras, waving a single hand at the sidelines and then focusing in on the Victors.

Aedric has his eyes closed, standing perfectly still. Thea and Cady are either side of him, both staring at him as if expecting the worst.

He was always one of the smarter Victors. Calm and composed. He'll be fine.

"For your female tribute, we have-" I walk over to the glass bowl, slip my hand in and take out the first piece of paper I come into contact with. Unfolding it quickly, smiling once more, I read out: "- Theadossia Burkehart!"

The chosen woman barks with laughter. Staggering forwards, she eyes the crowd with a smirk and then walks towards the stage. She's not as fast as I've seen her on the television screen when I watched the recap of her own Games, but there's a liveliness to Thea that's always been there.

"Could you help a little old lady up these steps, I'm not the girl I used to be." When the Peacekeeper offers her a hand, she changes her mind and swats it away, laughing loudly. "On second thoughts, get me a drink, I can handle a few steps."

When she marks her arrival with two rather loud stomps on the wooden stage, she stares out with her arms crossed, gazing out across the District as they look up at her.

People here, the elderly, they chose her to be in the Games. And now she's being thrown back in again. I can't blame her for acting the way she does.

Not really.

"Aedric Surran!" With the only male slip in my hand, Aedric nods his head and moves up to the stage. A smile makes its way onto his face, not confident or brazen like Thea, just a gentle curl of his lips. When his own children call his name, it starts to slip once, little voices shouting for their father to return to them.

Even with a week to accept things, it strikes him hard. Aedric holds it up, the weakest of grins, but his face is pained and I do what I can for him by ending the ceremony quickly.

With a wave, Aedric turns before the doors are open. Thea stares at me, raising an eyebrow and shaking her head.

"Were you people always so young? I remember my Escort, wrinkled chap, fifty or so."

"I'm nineteen ma'am."

Thea snorts, giggling and walking with me by her side. "Ma'am, now there's a thought. Keep that up and you might just make my good books."

She links my arm, the doors shutting behind us.

"Poor man," she mumbles in Aedric's direction, watching him disappear into a side-room. I nod my head, slipping into my own sense of sadness over his situation.

I'll never be able to share what he's going through. Knowing it was going to be him all along, losing the family he's grown to love.

It's heartbreaking.

But so goes the tale of the Games.

And I'm right in the middle of things. Does that make me a bad person?

I couldn't help picking his name, he was the only one there.

I hope I'm not bad, I don't want to be bad. I just want people to see me and love me, call my name and cheer when I step out and wave for them.

Maybe I'm dreaming too much, maybe it's impossible.

But there's no harm in trying.

No harm at all.

* * *

**Final six Escort POVs. These ones went on for a bit longer than the last ones, I suppose I had more to say for these escorts.**

* * *

_**Which escorts stood out and why?**_

_**Which tributes stood out and why?**_

* * *

**That's it for the reapings, next chapter we'll start seeing the tributes themselves.**

**In case you haven't checked out the blog recently, sometime after I last updated, I added a prediction of where the Capitol believes each tribute will place in the Games. It's nothing serious, but I worked it out roughly on their ages and the way they were in their own Games. Also, I've added the mentors that will go along with the tributes.**

**Anyway thanks for reading, reviewing, and continuing to follow the chapters.  
**

**Next up, we move into the Capitol!  
**


	4. Train Rides

**Chapter Four.**

* * *

**Train Rides.**

* * *

**Carson Demetrius, 47 years old;  
District Four Male.**

* * *

Jett stumbles in, lips peeled back in an awkward smile. When Braelyn cranes her neck in his direction, his cheeks erupt in a blush and he stands rigid on the carpet, staring straight at me.

"D-Do you know who your fellow, er... your fellow allies are?"

Braelyn chuckles and I shake my head, waiting for his reaction. His red blush only intensifies as he plummets down, nestling into the confines of the leather booth, away from sight. Behind him, Alessia stumbles in and pauses at the spot where Jett mutters under his breath, hidden in the red furniture.

Standing there, a wrinkled, scowling statue of disapproval, Alessia finally sighs and moves in our general direction.

"Blasted boy, can't keep a conversation if it meant his life."

"Funny, if it weren't for Carson, it could have led to that." Braelyn beams, happy with the state of irony she's just pointed out. I only stare at her, bristling with irritation but take a deep breath and relax backwards.

"You boys are so depressing," she sighs, sweeping her hair past her collar and lying backwards. "It's called the Hunger Games, might as well enjoy the Game side of things."

Alessia looks amused, perching herself by Braelyn's feet. The younger girl is laughing to herself, as if the idea of fighting and killing people we've become connected with is the most pleasurable thing in the world. I start to feel the same sense of anger again, coiling my stomach and tightening my chest.

It's always there, an ever present sensation that unnerves me. Jett leans up and stares in my direction, resting his chin on the flats of his knuckles.

If there's one kind of attitude I can't stand, it's the one Braelyn holds. She's mischievous, not sadistic but doesn't mind getting her hands dirty if it's better than what she's currently doing. I can't see her, but I can tell what she looks like. Smirking, that ever arrogant smirk that drove me away from ever connecting with her.

Jett, even Alessia, there are people in Four that have won who I can find something in that attracts me. Reflecting on their personalities, understanding what they had to do. Braelyn killed for her own survival and I can't berate her for that. But I can berate for now witnessing first hand the way she views these Games.

I have friends here. She does, surely.

"Let's watch!" She cheers, pushing up and sitting down with her eyes on the screen. District One comes on with Astrea Cartelle sprinting to the stage. Her blonde hair bounces in the wind as the escort's face twists into one of complete and utter anguish.

"There's a story there, those two, no escort acts like that for some brattish child."

Braelyn dramatically gasps, "Astrea Cartelle is no brat, she's wonderful."

The older woman turns to her, smirking. "Really?"

"Well, no, she's an attention-seeking slut, but who here can judge?"

I don't want to judge Astrea, not even by the impression I'm getting from her arrival. I don't want to judge Braelyn for what she has to say or the way she holds herself, or Alessia for her wit and the apparent bitterness. Or even Jett, poor Jett who stumbles over his words and only won because the other Careers murdered each other before they could get their hands on him.

We all have imperfections, but it's hard at times. Finding the balance between acceptance and feeling hatred towards certain individuals. I try to mellow myself with Braelyn's company, telling myself over and over she's young and she'll change eventually.

But now, where we're headed, she'll only get worse. That ego, that underlying hatred to the things that have corrupted her, she'll never change for the better.

"Avery Levine," Braelyn rolls her eyes, scrunching her nose.

"The one with the cat?" Jett pipes up from his hiding place. Braelyn glances over her shoulder once more and he shrinks backwards, as red as the tomatoes lying half cut on a bed of lettuce. He picks one up, takes a bite and then lies fully down away from sight.

Truthfully, sitting here and waiting is boring. Tediously journeying towards the place I've been countless time. It's lost its excitement, the first thrill of seeing those looming skyscrapers dotting the landscape in a concrete cover. Flashing lights, colored folk that roam the streets. I was bewildered and scared at the same time.

But now, I know the drill. It's not the unknown I'm headed to. I'm going to be hurting and killing people I've seen murder as children and grow to be adults. Some I've never spoken to, others I've grown a connection with that's as deep as the bond between me and Jett.

I volunteered for him because I had to. Spur of the moment, maybe. Idiotic, probably. But necessary. Jett has his life ahead of him, and I'm withering away, left in a house and a District that I've drained of everything I can.

There's no excitement left in life. I'm perfectly happy to watch the sky go by and people like Braelyn and Jett grow up and make the world the way they want it to be. But, there's nothing for me. So I had to volunteer, for someone like Jett who can grow to be a bigger and better person.

If I die, I can die happy.

_But does it mean you won't fight?_

I haven't worked that out yet.

"Oh my," Braelyn clasps her hands together at the sight of herself storming on stage. Her hair is a flurry behind her back, with the sea air lashing at her cheeks. She looks happy and angry at the same time, whilst I come up as stoic as ever. Impressive it might have been, but my age and body have left me nothing but an old volunteer with no hope alongside people like Astrea and Braelyn within the same Arena.

More Districts roll by, Alessia and Braelyn engaging in their own sort of commentary. District Seven flashes in a blur of bark and leaves, settling on the stage for the two tributes.

An old man walks on, Meridian, the only male Victor.

"Ha," Braelyn laughs out loud, staring over at me. "He's almost as fat as you."

Without me telling it to, my eyes locate my stomach. My body's fallen into a level I never once thought it would, but I'm not fat. Average, but for people like Braelyn, she'll never understand imperfections as anything but a sign of weakness.

And she's always been about strength.

Strength is what wins the Hunger Games. Maybe once, I had what it took. I did, years ago I won and came back a Victor. Not the greatest Victor, but someone to represent and direct Four to a better future. But the years are flying by and I have to pass the torch to those like Braelyn.

And I can't help but think, right now as I sit here listening to her snide comments and giggles, that the younger generation may not have much hope.

I don't want to judge. It makes me feel guilty because people like Braelyn have their reasons.

But it's there, and I can't help it.

Braelyn isn't a good person.

And I hate myself for feeling that way.

* * *

**Erika Marsh, 46 years old;  
District Seven Female.**

* * *

A painful headache pounds behind my eyes, whisking the world away in a darkened blur, a harsh beat inside my skull. My fingers bend and tear into the thick, leather upholstery. Through the tiny, open light beaming through my half-shut eyes, Meridian smiles warmly at me, reaching a hand in my direction.

I take it, without question. I take it and squeeze, pushing the pain away and draining it out as the bones grind beneath his skin. If I'm hurting him, he says nothing, he only stares at me kindly as the headache rattles my teeth and sets my veins on fire.

_I promised. No more, not now, not whilst I'm here._

"Do you need a glass of water?" He asks, rubbing his thumb along the back of my hand, soothing me as I contest with the agony. _What I need is for you to... __to what?_

"Yes," I croak, nodding my head, "yes please."

Meridian stares to move, releasing my hand and shaking to stand on his legs. The compartment doors slide open an instant later, Devi walking through and staring between the pair of us. Gradually, I will my eyes to open. It hurts, being away from the one thing that's hooked and kept me grounded, the one thing I should be ashamed of in my life more than the Games, but I cannot fall apart now. Not until I fulfill the promise to my husband that I will return again.

"I'll get it, wouldn't want you breaking a hip," she laughs to herself, filling the empty air with her cruel snicker. "Unless you already have, then by all means, waddle over and get one for Little Miss Powdered Nose."

Meridian sighs, shaking his head and settling back in his chair. "No need for that Devi."

"Be careful Erika," she whispers, far too loudly if she expects Meridian not to hear what she has to say. "Meri here's already killed one District partner, you never know, the old guy might want to make it a second."

Meridian's face immediately contorts with grief, and at that moment, it's as if the migraine melts away and all I can see is Devi's arrogant face staring between the pair of us.

"You know what Devi," I stand up, the older man shrinking away and staring with a frown. The younger girl steps up onto her toes, making up for her lack of height with the wicked snarl that sweeps away her smile. "If I'd have known you would have turned out to be such a bitch, I wouldn't have tried so hard to help you last year. People would be happier."

Her face pales. Instantly, the snarl wipes clean and all sense of that confidence washes away. Meridian opens his mouth to say something, anything, but it's Devi's face that brings forth the headache in the harshest intensity today.

I shriek, and watch Devi turn tail and storm back out.

I'm... I'm sorry... I try to open my mouth, but all that bubbles out are words that don't make sense, mixed with groans as the pain takes away everything. I didn't realise in such a sort amount of time how painful the effects would be from not taking what I've always had.

But they're bad, so bad. It hurts...!

"Meridian," my lips feel dry, throat painful and itchy. I twist my neck towards him. His eyes are still on the door Devi just left through, obviously feeling down for the bitter young girl. _I didn't mean to, I didn't. She's just so hateful._

"Meridian." He turns to me, shaking his head and perking up a bit. "Unless Zara's coming in anytime soon, please, water..." I smile politely through gritted teeth, bringing back the Erika I have to be, the side that pushes away the pain and forces me to understand what it is to be a Victor and accept what I've done. Even after all these years, the drugs kept the grief at bay, and now without them, I have to focus on the good things. Being the better kind of person, the person I was before.

"Of course."

It takes him as long as it did to walk onto the stage, shaking and quivering to reach the table with the jugs filled with water. He fills a glass cup and walks back over, handing it to me with a smile and settling back into his chair. Behind his head, trees and fields flash and merge together into one long stretch of green and brown, the nature giving way to a few burnt down huts and shacks left to rot.

"I shouldn't have said that," I frown, taking another sip and doing all I can to ignore the shaking behind my eyes. "I really shouldn't."

"I know Erika, you were only standing up for me."

His lips twist into a lopsided grin, half caked in the same flicker of grief and the other with the happiness and optimism that District Seven has grown to expect from such a man. When he looks away, I take another glance over his overweight form, grown out of care through years of luxury and food at his fingertips.

Not once did he become shallow, or expect things from anyone. _And yet, he did kill his District partner._ I remember the recaps, watching with wide eyes and trying to picture the gentle man butcher the girl in the bloodbath.

He's not like that anymore. He never was even then, even in the Games all Meridian did he did for survival. I can't push him down for that, it makes me ten times the hypocrite. It's being with other Victors that gives us the peace away from what we had to do, the guilt and turmoil over our actions. Being with people who understand and can nurture us into comfort.

"I'm glad she won, she deserved it as well as anyone. I shouldn't have said that."

He raises his eyes again, shaking his head kindly. "Don't hurt yourself over this Erika, you're in pain and she wasn't helping. Devi's still going through the phase of coming from the Games and realizing everything is different. It will take time."

I nod and take another sip of water, icy fingers stretching down my throat and quenching my thirst. If only for a moment, my headache subsides again and my eyes move on instinct to the door where Devi's compartment lies.

"I'm going to go."

Meridian smiles, knowing in those eyes what I have to do.

I stand up, moving for the door. If we don't apologize, we let it grow and build up into a sense of guilt that swallows us whole. I've been through too much, we all have. Devi's only a girl. A troubled, broken girl piecing together some sense of normalcy in the shadow of her life.

I knock once, forming the apology, and wait.

It's better to be kind. It's better to remember that you're human, and with that, we all make mistakes.

* * *

**Inara Sigmone, 39 years old;  
District Ten Female.**

* * *

"They're as twisted as they've always been."

Braelyn Lavelle moves onto the stage, all glamored up and perfect as she thanks the escort for choosing her name from the bowl. As if this is something to be _pleased _with.

"I bet a smile would look good on that pretty face, Inara." Tristan calls out cheerfully, popping a grape into his mouth and leaning back into his armchair. I turn to face him, my all to familiar scowl plastered on my mouth in the absence of anything to be happy with. This only riles him up further and he winks, crossing his arms behind his neck and digging around for a comfortable position.

If only I could hate him, then this would be so much easier.

The doors slide open in time to the Capitol Anthem, transitioning to the next half of the reaping recaps. Isolde calmly limps towards the pair of us, Morrison in tow.

"I trust you're behaving yourself?" she eyes up Tristan distastefully. Ever since his bumpy relationship with my mentor's daughter came into the public eye, she's always harbored a stern thought for Tristan. His mouth opens, fumbling for words and for the first time, seeing him flustered, I smile and turn back to the television.

I recognise plenty of those walking up to the stage, united together in certain ways. They carry themselves respectfully, or in the case of Amriel Chamblin, completely break apart only to be roused back into reality by her District partner.

"Aw, I should have held your hand." Tristan pouts, looking around for some sort of reaction. I stare over at him, raising an eyebrow and he goes back to watching Ten light up the screen. The camera rolls over our pastures once, focusing on the very farm that Tristan's family works on, and then zooming in on my face and Tristan's when he's called out after me.

That chink in my armor, the one thing I can't keep away no matter how much I push and try to cut him . It had to be Tristan who's accompanying me here. I thought I could win again, when my name came up. The storm of emotions subsiding for that brief moment of hope that if I can continue to maintain what I've held for the past few years, I could make it back out and carry on with my life.

But now, with Tristan here, it complicates things. No one on screen would bring about anything inside of me, I could do the worst things in the Arena if it meant my life. All the regret and guilt would bury itself under the heaps of sorrow already there. But now, Tristan. _Tristan._

"You alright over there?"

The television turns itself off. When I look up, all eyes have been turned towards me. My cheeks feel as if a fire has been set inside my skull, burning through misery over the situation. I can handle being reaped, I can handle fighting people who have already won. I've fought for a while now, fought people who have their own second motivations and fought people who have tried to do what they can in their own name, selfishly tossing others aside.

Isolde, even Morrison. They care, but how much?

And then there's Tristan. He's a funny, confident young man who's managed to repress all the feelings inside of himself that I couldn't help but let control me when I was his age.

He's a Capitol favourite, loved by all. Charming, enthusiastic, but intelligent at the same time. Aware of himself and what must be done, but managing to do it all at the same time with a level of nonchalance that you can't help but be drawn to. If I had a hope in winning, it was extinguished the moment he walked up to join me.

Isolde places a hand on my shoulder, squeezing it. I blink back, shaking my head and trying to show some form of comfort on my face. Impossible feelings, because all I can see is Tristan coming out alive, and that makes me scared. Scared of dying. And then I think about winning myself, and I want to scream and protect Tristan.

How can I be unfeeling, when the boy across from me elicits such emotions?

How can I kill him, when I'd gladly lay down my life for the one person I managed to help survive, who beat the odds and came out victorious?

I'm in an impossible situation.

The train jerks and Tristan slumps forwards, falling from the chair and smacking against the ground. He laughs, rolling his head back and standing up. He stares at me, a look I'd regard as judgmental, but on him it leaves me feeling nothing but the same thoughts I unleashed after my victory.

I thought I could help others, push away my own feelings, and look where it's got me now.

"Are you sure you're alright?" He says, carefully moving across towards me. I swat away the older Victor, ignoring her mumbling when she goes to sit with Morrison over by the buffet.

He nudges up closer, sitting on the arm of the chair and staring at me. No contact, because Tristan knows me, and when he knows people he understands how to handle them. If only I could do that.

"I'm fine, honestly."

He shakes his head, chuckling under his breath. "Every time you've ever said you're fine, something bad happens. I know when you're not fine Inara."

"Who are you now, my mentor?"

Again, the same laugh, the same gentle noise that rouses me from this stupor and plummets me into feelings I can't keep at bay. The same emotions that will kill me in the Arena.

"I'm a friend."

_Friend._

"We can't have friends anymore, not where we're going."

He breaks the lack of contact, plummeting down and shoving me into the other side of the armchair. It's uncomfortable and I have half a mind to stand up and storm off, but it's his calm, cheerful green eyes that root me back into the cushions. The boy I care about like I would a son.

"Everyone needs a friend Inara."

With a dramatic yawn, he leans back and lets an arm fall round my back and prop against my right shoulder. When I stare at him, waiting for him to let go or say something else, he only closes his eyes with a grin curling into the freckles on his cheeks.

_Everyone needs a friend._

I thought I needed friends, I really did. And it go me nowhere. It only made things a million times worse after dealing with killing other people.

Tristan's only been one of us for a few years, and already he's connected with other Victors at a faster rate than I ever could. I cut off ties, whilst he let friendships flourish and built bridges between the Districts.

If we need friends, there's only one person I'll ever allow to make that connection with me.

It's the same person I already have that connection with.

The boy that sleeps to my side, with his head on my shoulder like a son would cuddle up to their own mother.

I care about him.

And that's the biggest mistake I've ever made.

* * *

**Theadossia Burkeheart, 65 years old;  
District Twelve Female.**

* * *

A funny, bowlegged chap eases into the cart. In his red colored hands, a bottle of bubbly sticks out, cork and all.

"That's mine!" I leap up, cheering and scooping it out from his hands. Mildly shocked, he opens his mouth to say something, and only then remembers he can't speak. Looking ashamed, he nods his head and walks the way he came, tailing out with his poor little legs slowing him down.

"Someone should be kinder to those guys, they aren't bad people."

Aedric nods his head, smiling when I pop open the cork, pour the good stuff into a flute glass and shake it around. Rianna only stares at me, eyebrow raised, her coal hair lighting up her heart-shaped face. Cady's off somewhere, sleeping the journey away. She never did like this train ride.

"Not had champagne before?"

She giggles, shaking her head. "Never acquired the taste ma'am."

_Ma'am. _It still feels good, like I'm the ruddy President or something.

"You should try and acquire it someday. Things are a little easier with alcohol in the system."

Aedric tuts and sweeps his legs out from the couch, easing closer to the buffet table laid out splendidly at the side. Already half of the platters are empty, crumbs left on the silver metal. I belch, laughing again and pouring it down my throat. It's strong, but I can handle my booze. Taking another gulp, I slide my legs up and cross them over, relaxing into the velvet cushions with a sigh and picking up the television remote.

"If things are easier with alcohol, why do you take so long to reach my house for dinner?"

"Because Aedric," the lean man takes a bite out of a cream cake, chomping it down quickly, "your dinners taste like a dead cat."

"Have you tried dead cat before?" Rianna interrupts. Immediately, her pretty eyes widen and a paleness takes away the flush that keeps her looking as young as her age and body allow her to appear. _Oh, to be her age again, chest and all. _

"Sorry, I didn't mean to-"

I tut, sipping some more of the wine and relishing in the warm glow permeating through my chest, filling my veins with fire and ice and happiness. "If you have a dead cat anywhere, I'd love to take a bite."

Her nose crinkles with disgust, and when I burst out laughing, Rianna finally realizes I'm only messing with her and goes back to chuckling in that bizarre, refined way she handles herself.

She's been taught well, better than the old goat I slept with all those years ago.

"Do you know any of the others that have been chosen?"

"No ma'am," she shakes her head. Aedric slumps back in his seat, going back to playing with a weird sort of device in his hands. Buttons light up and he laughs, taking another bite from a cake by the side table. Cream coats his upper lip, a white, fluffy mustache. He barely notices. He's a good man, a man that doesn't deserve this.

_Do I?_ Well, I was voted in once by my District. The wrinkled prunes back in Twelve who knew my Games must be glad to see me gone again. And those up-jumped merchants who think I'm nothing but a pampered killer, glorified for doing nothing but taking lives.

Well, to hell with them all.

"Let's see what's on."

I flick to one channel. A girl with blazing hair, tucked up to her chest, reads out a report. "Boring," I groan, turning to the next.

"He's cute, do you like him?" Some young man, tall and handsome shouts into a microphone, music probably. I can't decipher a single word he's actually saying, the youth of today. Rianna blushes, shaking her head again.

"No ma'am."

The next channel is about food. The next some kind of documentary on District life, the next a Presidency speech from the same young chap running our country.

Then the next channel comes on, and my finger freezes over the button.

A filthy, dirty-faced girl stands shocked on a bed of charred, black rock. Smoke rises in plumes behind her, the silvery blonde hair greasy against her face.

The boy on the ground, bleeding, dying, stands up and charges at her.

The girl raises her weapon, with no choice but to defend herself, and slams it into his shoulder, slicing half his body away in the blink of an eye.

"Thea?"

Aedric is by my side, sitting on the arm of the chair and taking the remote from my hand. The wide eyes of the girl on screen fade into static, and then black when he switches it off completely.

"He shouldn't haven ran," I mutter, my fingers curling into the cushion. Why did he attack me?

_Because you would have died for him, and he didn't want that. _

He shakes my shoulder again, and finally I look up. His eyes are filled with worry, but the grin brings me around, pulling me away from that distant, nightmarish world and plunging my old body straight back into reality.

"I was hot," I joke, laughing into the alcohol that drips from the bottom of the glass and through my lips. I don't remember that scene exactly, not really. All my life as a child, a 'murderer' in the eyes of Twelve, and then growing up, they're all a bit of a haze.

Maybe it is my age getting the best of me.

Or maybe it's the alcohol. It works both ways, I'm either dancing on the table with my dress by my ankles, or sulking and crying.

"I'm such a baby," I lean back into the chair and swat away Aedric. His laugh is nervous, but when he turns to go, he stops to linger behind my shoulder. "I'm fine, stop you're worrying, you'll die young."

"Yeah." He sighs, walking back, sitting down and staring at a teary-eyed Rianna. "Yeah I will."

_Learn to keep your mouth shut, Thea. Damn you, he's only trying to help._

"To hell with you both."

I drop the glass and storm off through the door of the compartment. Even when the train starts to slow down, grinding to its halt at our destination, I fall into the silky escape of my blanket.

"I don't want this, not again." I mutter, wiping away a tear. "I'm too old." _Let me live my life, let me finish it with some pride._

The Capitol doesn't care for age, it's a number, nothing more. It's our bodies and fear and fight that they crave.

Once, I could have fought the world away and I'd still be standing.

But I can't even remember that girl in the ash, killing her attacker. I can't remember being her, or what was going on, or anything.

Age isn't just a number. Not to people who grow old.

Age is a curse.

Age is death.

* * *

**Aaanddd another change in format. I'm so indecisive. It was supposed to be 8 Capitol chapters with 6 POVs but I can't push myself to write a 6 POV chapter anymore, so we're going for 12 Capitol chapters with 4 POVs. Longer pre-games but whatever xD**

* * *

_**Favourite POV?**_

_**Which tributes stood out and why?**_

_**Which tributes would you like to see next?**_

* * *

**Well, as long as laziness doesn't get in the way, I should be able to keep up weekly updates or even make them shorter since if I actually push myself, I can get two POVs done everyday. We'll see!**

**In case you're not aware, I have ANOTHER SYOT planned and ready to get going. Deadline is next week, PM me for the form and the amount of submissions are posted on my profile. Oh, the story has also been published. It's written with DA Member Hogwarts, a good ole chum of mine ;D**

**Until next time!**


	5. Chariot Preparation

**Chapter Five.**

* * *

**Chariot Preparation.**

* * *

**Preston Bostwick, 55 years old;  
District Eight Female.**

* * *

"As it's commonly known Preston, whilst we poor men age badly, women seem to shine with each passing year."

I smack his shoulder away playfully, laughing. "Are you flirting with me Tristan?"

The younger boy smirks and shrugs his shoulders. Other tributes mill past us, all collectively gossiping and getting along, or slinking away by themselves. Inara stands rigid at the side, staring at our exchange. I wave kindly and she turns away, storming off towards an open elevator to be pampered within an inch of her life.

"Don't mind her, besides, it's me you want."

"Oh I want you, do I?" He blushes, swaying left and right with a certain swagger only the youth possess. "Please Tristan, I'm getting old, I'm nothing like I used to be. Besides, there are plenty of women here who would jump at the chance to have a try on you."

"Worth a shot eh, you look much younger than your age."

A shorter, plumper lady sashays through the pair of us and snorts. "Full of charm aren't you."

"Nice to see you too Thea." I chime back, laughing at the face Tristan pulls. He's so naïve, and yet, thoughtful about us older gals.

"Sorry about your kids Preston," she announces more solemnly. The drop in mood spreads instantly, swiping the smile from my face. The presence of Tristan lingers by my shoulder for another moment, and then he's gone, knowing better than to continue. Thea smiles sadly, and I return it, hearing my name called out across the entry hall in the direction of an elevator.

Cecil nods when I quickly sweep past him. In no time at all over by the main set of doors, the Careers are gathering. Other tributes linger near them, closer than typically permitted. Here, we're amongst friends, people we know.

It makes me sad, depressed even. No matter what we all do or say or try, only one of us will return. And the worse part is, I have to make sure that's me. Tristan, Cecil, Thea, all of them. They all have to die for my victory.

_I promised my children,_ I repeat in my head. I promised their mother would return to them, alive and whole. A mother keeps her word. I have to win.

The solemn attitude turns my stomach the wrong way. The chipper young man, dressed head to toe in some sort of feather outfit, cheers when he sees me. Quickly, wanting to alleviate the mood and bring about my sense of enjoyment, I embrace him and pluck a feather out.

He groans and then breaks out in a fit of chuckles.

"I've missed you Preston."

"You too Claudius." He punches a button, and with a ding, we shoot up through the center. The elevator is paneled with glass giving me a clear, panoramic view of the floors we pass. Some people notice me flying by and quickly wave, others are herding their own Victors to their appropriate rooms. Art traipses past, glumly following her own peach-colored stylist, and then we're off higher to my own floor.

"Here we are," Claudius states, nodding his head in affirmation. The glass doors slide open and we walk out. Talk swiftly takes a turn towards home life again, something that whilst I'm not exactly happy to chat about, gives me that sense of determination I need to keep me alive. It's all fun and games when you're out drinking with fellow Victors, having a laugh. But it's an entirely different story when your drinking buddies are those you're going to be killing.

We all know the deal. Regardless of who we are, our friends, our connections, no one will show mercy to someone they might have once been close with.

Claudius must notice this, and clears his throat awkwardly. I push him in the back, ellicting a nervous round of chuckles which I gladly mirror. Although my heart beats faster, sweat prickles against my wrists and throat feels like it's clogging up, I cannot fall apart.

What would my children think, or my husband?

The other Eight Victors, happy to not be here, but devastated they're losing two of their own. I can't be another fallen tribute, a very old, sprightly tribute, but a dead tribute all the same. I cannot be that.

"I know you can do it Preston," Claudius says, almost as if he reads my mind. I nod kindly at him when the glass doors slide open at the press of a button.

Inside, the same metal table is bolted into the floor. Countless vials and substances filled to the brim with the most disgusting smelling liquids and gels line shelves and a few tabletops. I proceed to lie down, knowing the drill and wince at the cold touch of the metal.

Claudius' lips twitch sadly. If everyone's mood is so down, how can I boost my own? It's almost impossible to find some shred of happiness to cling onto if everyone is so resigned to what my fate is. I need to see it from the same perspective I always have. With hard work, you can do it.

I'm a tenacious old crone, I have to stick to that.

"We'll begin shortly."

"You're not dressing me up in the same patchwork frock you make all the tributes wear, right? I have some class you know Claudius."

He goes a deep shade of red. He's well aware his own creations are somewhat lackluster. He's not one of those naïve stylists that believes everything they stick a tribute in is some work rivaled by nothing. Patchwork is bad and he knows it. Unfortunately, what can you do with a District Eight tribute?

The next thing is dressing up to be a factory, and I hate the colour grey.

"Honestly, Preston. You shouldn't talk to me like that."

I see him bring out a sheet of plastic, curved to fit the human body. I take the hint and immediately bring my legs over to the side, pulling off my shoes and undressing. I'm past the point of caring. If Tristan laid his eyes on this it would probably put him off forever anyway.

I'm not who I used to be, but that's fine. It's the insides that count, and I'm as young as I was at his age.

Hopefully, anyway. I'll need to be where I'm headed.

"Your hair is still beautiful," he calmly states, not embarrassed by my show of nudity. I quickly wrap the plastic round and settle back down.

"Now," he presses the button in the door, another lady walks in with a clipboard in her hand and a wide grin on her face. "Let's begin."

_Time to look pretty, Preston._ Time to become a tribute again.

* * *

**Avery Levine, 34 years old;  
District Two Female.**

* * *

The petite, curious looking lady hovers by my side. With a petrified expression, she turns to the sound of footsteps and watches her assistant peer round the glass door.

"Be careful Celia, she bites."

I stare up at his overly-patronizing tone and glare daggers in his direction, narrowing my eyes with the straps bolting me to the bed-sheet like I'm some maniac.

"She's harmless, right?"

He giggles, tutting under his breath. "Don't pet the dog and you'll be fine."

_Dog?_

I growl under my breath, shaking the restraint that chafes repeatedly against my wrist. It burns, already they're hurting me, doing what they want to inflict upon me so they can get back what they rightfully think they deserve. I stare at the woman with wide eyes when she returns the gaze, wincing slightly and turning away to wander over to the tray on the other side of the bed.

"Please," I croak, shaking again against the cuff keeping me tied down and at the mercy of these monsters. "I don't want you to touch me with anything, or hurt me, or..."

"Dear, you're perfectly safe. Now be a good dog and stop barking, we're perfectionists and that nest of a hairdo really won't cut it."

Despite his status as underling to the quivering lady, she immediately nods her head and proceeds to bring out a hairbrush. With shaking hands, she moves closer to my side and that's when I see those awful, long points coming from it. Like knives, or swords. Yeah. Miniature swords about to rake along my scalp.

"Touch me with that and I'll rip your throat out," I snarl, shaking again. She looks over at the man, scared out of her petty mind. She's not the main problem in this room. If only they'd just leave me alone, reaping me wasn't enough, now they want to tie me down and do what they want, whatever it is these sick human beings desire from me. I can't do anything to stop them.

"Brush her hair, it's safe Celia, you work here for a reason."

For a moment, her cheeks brighten red and I see a spark of hope. Maybe I'm safe because she'll stand up and take the role that's hers. She only hurts me because he tells her too. She'll take her place as rightful overlord to these weird, colorful freaks and I'll be alright. Peaceful, rather than this hell.

But then the hairbrush comes closer and closer, above me, and I have to twist away from it, shaking my head and gritting my teeth with anger.

"I said, don't touch me!" It brushes through my hair, snagging on knots and bringing about pain that tears through my head. "DON'T TOUCH ME!"

The white, clinical walls start to sink in closer to the three of us, tightening the room... suffocating... killing...crushing...

I cry out once more and fall silent, relaxing into the bed and losing the fight. If they want to hurt me, I'll just prove them wrong. I won the Games, the tricks and contraptions of maze walls that like this room tried to push me into a messy pulp. All I have to do is keep a straight face and prove I'm no dog. I'm not a dog.

I hate dogs.

I want... I want my cat.

_Who's going to feed him whilst I'm gone?_

"All done!" she cheers right next to my ear, the noise ringing through my skull. I bite down on my tongue, hard enough to draw blood that tastes coppery at the back of my throat. I almost gag but think twice against it, leaning up as far as I can to peer into the mirror she provides.

The very same hair that some pea-head said looks like a nest, actually looks nice. I don't care about looking nice, not for these people that parade us around, hurt us and torture us because we're their little playthings.

But still, it does look good I suppose.

"Thank you?"

It sounds more like a question, but the lady takes it as the biggest compliment and cheers again, clapping her hands fervently together in a loud round of applause.

My stomach growls when she pulls away. Oh yeah, pieces of the train ride start to come together again. "I forgot to eat anything," I blurt out loud to the room. Through the glass door, Lennox walks by, the tall broad-shouldered idiot that would not shut up the whole way down. He's just another person who's there to work for the Capitol.

He even volunteered.

Like this is a good place to be.

_He's against you, so you'll have to prove him wrong. Prove them all wrong._

"I really am hungry," I repeat again, louder this time. My stomach lurches in response and I grin at the two people with me in this room. The lady stares at the man, raising an eyebrow. He shakes his head and comes closer to me.

"We have to get you ready, no food until later."

Another pang of hunger rattles through my stomach and this time, I grip onto the sides of the bed and force my head up as far as it will go. "I said I'm hungry."

"And I said that you will not be fed until later."

"I am hungry," I repeat.

He slaps his hands against his legs and sighs, shaking his head and bringing fingers through those ugly sick-colored curls. "She doesn't listen does she?"

"I'm listening and I said I want some food."

"I thought you said you're hungry," he laughs and walks over to a compartment somewhere hidden into the white wall. It blends in well, almost invisible until he opens it up and brings out a small tub of something and... and a... knife?

A small razor of some sorts that comes towards me, faster and faster with his puny little legs against the ground. The lady looks at me once more, shivering and mumbling under her breath.

"I don't think she likes that."

"Forgive me, but a dog must be groomed. It won't hurt, quit you're fussing."

When the man looks at me again, his face changes. Quickly, the skin bubbles and melts away into a sick, uncanny recreation of... Felix...

"You're dead," I mutter under my breath, horrified, nails digging into my wrists as I pull and twist away. My District partner from my Games, he's dead, he's gone and buried. I helped bury him. To say goodbye before I hid away from people. I had to hide away, but first I had to say goodbye to Felix. My friend. He deserved that.

"I can assure you, I'm as alive as you are."

"GO AWAY!" I scream, clamping down on my tongue and slamming my eyes shut. The razor comes closer and closer, metal against my legs, and I watch the walls cave in from within my imagination.

But it's not me imagining things.

It's real.

The Capitol wanted me back, and now Felix is here, now the world wants to see me dead with a knife cutting into my leg. My hair made all nice so that it can be ripped from my head and torn apart in a mess of blood and my own agony torturing me from within.

"I'm sorry," I groan, rolling over and twisting as the razor cuts into my leg. "I'm sorry."

"We know dear. We know."

And yet, they continue to cut away. They continue to exact their revenge.

* * *

**Atticus Winston, 38 years old;  
District One Male.**

* * *

Astrea bangs against the glass door, repeatedly, over and over again. Her hand presses against it, eyes fronted towards me on the metal slab in the center. Each laugh is muffled behind the only wall protecting me from the enthusiastic girl. I'm glad for that limited protection. I feel a little embarrassed cowering away in the one room I loathed more than anything in my time during the Capitol, but it's necessary.

Astrea doesn't have any other victor relation except for me, her being new. She sees me as her link to other victors and is willing to do whatever it takes to secure her standing amongst them. Which means I have to stay well back, polite of course, respectful, but away from her.

I wave in response and she shouts something, only to realise I can't hear. Her own stylist is nowhere to be seen, which is why she's been left unattended. My own stylist, a petite women with golden ringlets that curl to her chest, and reach upwards in a weird sweep back over her head, comes closer from the back of the room. She scowls at Astrea, obviously affronted by her blatant disregard of the rules. Astrea doesn't seem to fully realise where she is or what she's doing until I disrobe.

I can't quite stop myself smirking at her eyes, the way they widen into her hairline, her lips pulling back in shock. When I stand there, naked, she blushes and storms off into the darkened hallway and away from sight.

That's one way to get rid of a girl like her. Attention-seeking to the point of obsession, but strangely innocent.

"She likes you," my stylist purrs, running a finger along my shoulder. I hold back a flinch, knowing that this is the show she wants. These Capitolites get what they want after all, and I've always been about giving people their own personal satisfaction. Maybe it weakens my sense of self, all these different fronts I have to pursue for the sake of retaining a likeability factor. But so what. It's better to be liked than hated, even by a weird, tiger-pattered abomination.

"She likes what I can do for her, not who I am."

She pouts, pushing against my chest onto the table. Already, I feel my cheeks warming into red, embarrassment and a bizarre sense of modesty roiling my stomach. When she looks down at me, smiling in that fashion, I want to run away. I stay still, holding back that desire and wait for her to break eye contact.

"I don't want her to like you," she says, smiling sadly. Her eyes stay on me for another second, and then she turns over to her own trays full of gels and sprays and everything else these stylists cling to in their fashion obsessed states of mind.

"Now, as perfect as you, we have to make some modifications."

With her back turned, I widen my eyes. "Modifications?" I manage to keep my voice level, repelling the fear worming its way through my gut. Adding that to her perverse nature, this is turning out to be worse than I imagined. Unlike Astrea, I never intended to actually be here again. For her it's all about what the Capitol has in mind when they think her name, and that reputation cannot be tarnished.

For me it's being their poster boy when it suits them and then living my own life in peace. My daughter, my friends, they mean more to me than some stupid, impossible sense of glory.

In a way, victors are the real puppets of the Capitol. The citizens retain a sense of twisted freedom, whilst we're known everywhere. And I hate that. But I have to live with it, so live with it is what I do.

"Don't you worry, the whole wing fad is over and done with. After last year's wacko stylist from Twelve, the President forbade us to do something that drastic."

Twelve's little girl. Bird girl, the girl with wings surgically embedded into her shoulders. The poor girl was in so much pain she fainted on that pedestal and fell to the bombs. It wasn't even her doing, she had a chance. That's why I hate it here, because of the level of control. It's why I level myself too, keeping myself in the same state of mind. It makes up for it, in the tiniest way possible.

"I'm sure what you have in mind is perfect, Rosetta."

She squeals, pinching my cheeks and grinning. "This is why I love you Atticus, so polite, so..." Again, her eyes wander, and I let it pass. When she resumes fiddling around in her trays, I take a deep breath and pull on the plastic covering left suspiciously bunched up against the side out of sight.

"What do you have in mind then?"

"A little wax here and there, take away some of these unnecessary hairs. Tan the skin, powder it, wash away any dirt. Make you shine, my dear."

"I am from District One, after all." I laugh. It takes Rosetta a moment to comprehend, and then she curls forwards, gripping her stomach as she bangs a fist against the table.

"District One... shine... luxury..." she wipes a tear when she looks up.

_It wasn't even funny._

"Oh, you're so funny Atticus, so, so funny!"

The next hour goes by in a whirlwind of pain and blood. Blood that wells up from the countless times I bite my tongue to hold back from crying out, and the pain when each wax-strip pulls away on my legs and everywhere else she tries to get to that doesn't even have hair. It's disgusting, feeling her hands all over me, but I hold myself properly.

Astrea would be proud, she hates it when people lose control. But then again, she does it all the time. I'm not here to make her proud, not her of all people. It's a matter of me making it out of this hell once more, for the final time, and retain the sense of peace I've always longed for.

I volunteered, the most stupid of all my old actions when I was blinded by what my parents wanted. I won, found peace after so many years of nightmares and agony, and now I'm here again against my will.

If I have to kill, I have to.

I don't want, I mean, who does? Who wants to take the life of people they know? Some of these Victors are my friends, some stay away because of my Career status, others turn a blind eye to my old actions and spend time with me regardless.

I don't want to hurt them.

But I'll be the person the Capitol wants.

I always am.

And I always will be.

* * *

**Pontius Tesla, 61 years old;  
District Three Male.**

* * *

On the right side, the glass wall is tinted with streams of colour that come from behind the door. The open box to these wacky Capitolites' imagination, made true for those unfortunate enough to be pulled out of a glass bowl and forced here to this place.

Only for me, it's the second time. Even if there's no one to really blame, it's easier to blame people. Shift the hurt onto someone else and pour your anger out on them. So that's what I do, intend to carry on doing, and won't stop doing until the day I die. A possibility about to come true.

"The Capitol won't like you if you don't smile, Pontius." My stylist stares at me with mild distaste. I clench my wrinkled old hands together, knowing the strength isn't there anymore, but willing it to pour through my fingers just this once.

I've longed for the moment to take my anger out on these immature, fancy folk who make their living off other people's misery. I never did because of possible retaliation, but now, when there's no chance of me winning, why not? What the hell, I'd do it if I wasn't so preoccupied at the awful outfit laid out. And the fact my strength is all but non-existent.

"I'll smile if I want to smile, ain't having you nor anyone tell me what to do. Not where I'm going."

He grumbles under his breath and turns to put his hands in the folds of what I'm to be seen wearing. He gasps with delight, a break from his otherwise somber attitude, and heaves it into his arms.

It's nothing more than a simple silver jumpsuit threaded through with wires, light-bulbs that are multicolored and a few plugs here and there dangling off.

The unoriginality in this place is astounding. "Great job," I laugh, pushing myself off from the table to stand on the cold, tiled floor. He stares at me, smiling and passing over his prized outfit. That's the problem with him, the way he sees his creations as something amazing when they really aren't.

The same can be said for District people, and especially these Victors. Even me, in a sense. We all have things we believe are the best of the best, what will carry us to our second victory regardless of blatant flaws that will hold us back. It's arrogance. Despite my dwindling strength, maybe, somehow there's a spark of intelligence left in the back of my mind I can bring out and harness in the Arena.

Those pretty boys and half-dressed girls all hold their heads high with their muscles and perfect faces, all thinking they're the bees-knees and the world revolves around them. Maybe it does, with their status as a victor. But it won't stop the Games from taking all but one of them. The rest left to die.

I'm better left here sulking, because I'm sulking over things that have to be sulked over. Doesn't mean I won't go in their alone, I'll just play it the right way and pick people who will want me.

I'm not stupid.

I'm worthless now.

Maybe, I always was.

"Come on then, let's get this piece of shit over and done with." His stupid, beady eyes widen at my language, and only narrow when he realizes the insult of his work. I almost expect him to abandon me to be getting this on myself, this mess of wires that weigh the fabric down. Instead, he grits his teeth and pulls me in his general direction, shaking off the plastic covering that keeps my none too lovely body from the eye of someone else.

I take it without flinching and let him guide my arms and legs into the holes. If he's disgusted like anyone else would be, he doesn't say a word or make a noise. As each part starts to come together, the weight begins to bear down on my shoulders, back and especially my neck when something is winded round and left to drape down my chest.

"It's awful," I scoff, picking up my arms to test the balance and letting them fall down when it starts to strain on my muscles. "Seriously, what the hell is this? I'm an old guy with a bad back and you expect me to manage this-"

"-you wear this or wear nothing, your choice."

My fingers twitch at the threat, but surprisingly, I start to smile. I like a little fight in someone, albeit this man has next to nothing within his frail frame, but he's still got some. I hold my tongue and let him finish up, tweaking my receding hair, covering my face in some powder that will apparently lessen the wrinkles and bring out something more youthful. If there's even a chance at that, I suppose I'll take it.

We all know the importance of sponsors, no one's going to be that impressed with an angry, wrinkled pumpkin that does nothing but glare at people.

My lips twitch, wider than I'm accustomed to. He bursts out laughing and raises a hand, settling it onto my shoulder. "Please, don't do that. Not that, not again." He wipes a tear from his eye, and when they settle on my own face reddening under the level of powder, he clears his throat and tugs on his collar awkwardly. "I mean, you're perfect of course. Just, don't smile that widely. Your face looks like it's broken."

I sigh, nodding. "Believe me, I've known that about myself for a long, long time. We're all broken in some way."

On the other side of the glass door, leading towards the open elevator that will take us down, Mirah stands waving her hand side to side. She's an oddly light girl. Lighter than I expected from her when I first had the chance to meet her. I never mentored her to victory, but I guess in Three there's a certain bond we all have despite our differences.

I nod my head, smiling the way that doesn't make my face look odd, and proceed to move forwards under this mess of metal and light-bulbs.

The Capitol will hate me, but whatever. The younger generation will be their focus, even Mirah will soak up applause whilst I'm left ignored.

I can handle that, because I understand.

I understand my chances, what hope I have.

And yet, I'll fight. I'll fight because I don't want to die. Hopefully there's something in these old bones left that will give me something. Otherwise, I'll be killed by one of those damn pretty boys. The same people I despise and envy at the same time.

Whatever.

"It's show time Pontius."

He nudges me forwards, and I walk closer to the door.

Best to get this over with. To make a fool of myself to the country, one step at a time.

* * *

**Late update woop!**

* * *

_**Favourite POV?**_

_**Which tributes stood out and why?**_

_**Any alliances you see coming together?**_

* * *

**Yeah, sorry about this being like an extra three or four days late. Exams yo, nothing I can do about it, the next update will most likely be late as well, but once we hit mid June and they're all gone I'll have my summer to write each day and stick to my schedules. **

**Those who read this and are waiting for the tribute list for my collab SYOT thingy, just waiting for Megan to return from someplace she's at, she's also got exams so obviously revising is more important so be patient, it'll hopefully be soon though.**

**Yeah so hope you enjoyed this chapter, some tributes will tend to show up more than others do as side characters because it fits certain scenes but whatever. Each tribute will still get their two POVs!**

**Up next: Chariot Rides!**


	6. Chariot Rides

**Chapter Six.**

* * *

**Chariot Rides.**

* * *

**Chilton Jones, 30 years old;  
District Eleven Male.**

* * *

A hand snags for my collar, just as I cross the threshold between the metallic building and the wide arched stables. I cry out, turn around on the spot and raise a fist. Retaliation, instinct, it's always been second nature since the Games. Hell, maybe I was always this jumpy. It's better to be cautious, though.

It kept me alive.

When my eyes settle on the light, emerald eyes of Minnie, my heart swoons, and then shoots into my throat, choking me.

"What are you doing?" I grasp her arm tight, shoving her into the shadows, away from sight. Other tributes begin to congregate towards the horses and Chariots, with enough time to spare, they begin to mingle. Talking amongst each other. I should be over there, but instead I'm here, with Minnie of all people.

"I had to see you," she stutters, gripping onto my shoulders and pulling me in close. Her bubblegum curls tickle against my bare chest, eliciting emotions I'm trying to repress. It's all the better for me, in the end. All the better for me to distance myself from these connections that threaten to swallow me whole if I don't shove them to the side.

"Minnie," I say, choking back tears, forcing myself to level my voice. "Minnie, I can't see you. Not here. Not when you're-" I glance down at her stomach, perfectly hidden under those baggy clothes. Hiding our secret, the gossip of a century.

"I can't just stand by and watch you..."

"Hey," I grin, trying to exude the very thing that made Minnie – my old stylist – fall in love with me all those years ago. My fingers tilt her chin up so our eyes are level, those green flecks turning to a darker, sadder shade. Capitol technology, like a mood ring.

"I promise you, you won't be missing me for too long. I'll be back before you know it."

I run a hand down her cheek, smiling as she clings to me. All I want to do is return the hug and whisk her away from this danger. She's in as much danger as I am, if this affair gets out, the repercussions...

I hate to think what will happen. I'm untouchable as a Victor, or I was before this happened. Minnie's nothing now. Old news. At least in their eyes.

"You promise?" she blinks back a fresh wave of tears, sniffling and wiping the back of her hand along her nose. "You really promise?"

I nod, cheerfully. "Since when have I ever lost a fight? Look at this chest," I grin playfully, watching her eyes level on my body and then back up at me, blushing and smiling. Her green eyes sparkling once more.

"Don't get cocky now, you know what these guys are like. What they can do."

From over here, I can make sense of the words the others shout to one another, laughing, cheering, the general camaraderie of what this situation brings before the nightmare comes forth. I hate it, so much. Art is probably wondering where I am, lonely in the Chariot or wandering around aimlessly without a cause.

"I have to get back," I frown, watching her own expression drop as mine does.

"I know," she presses her lips against mine, butterflies bursting in my chest, and as soon as it begins, it's over. She turns around and silently disappears, deeper into the shadows and away from sight.

_She's safe, so stop worrying. Focus on living, focus on being you. _

With a certain degree of confidence, I start to strut back out and wave nonchalantly at Autumn Mulone, who appears from the Remake Centre, covered head to toe in bits of metal meant to represent transport. I guess who we are is enough to gain us attention, the outfits are somewhat lackluster this year, compared to other years.

Oh well, we've all worked crowds before. The Capitol practically adores me.

I notice Art almost immediately, standing by the horse attached to Eleven's gilded Chariot. Her hand tenderly strokes the horse's head as she whispers words to it, words I can't pick up from here. When I finally near her, she stops and looks over her shoulder, smiling a small smile as I come to a halt.

"Where were you?"

Her eyes fail to reflect the timid gentleness to her face. Almost a total opposite to Minnie. Eyes that never change, regardless of how she's feeling. Empty, when all I've done is try to coax her out and push her back into reality, rather than whatever dreamlike state she's in.

"I had a thing," I laugh, waving a hand behind my shoulder in a random direction. Art follows my fingers then shrugs, mumbling something under her breath.

Other Victors walk on by, some of them call our names and offer their own mixed words of comfort, some just carry on by without looking in our direction. A few of the Careers at the very front glance over each Chariot in turn. When they reach Eleven, they halt on the pair of us.

I don't hate these Careers. Not like I did the Careers in my own Games, and all the other Games. Here, they aren't what they used to be, or at least, we can understand why they did what they did.

We're all aware of what must be done, and some us like me and the stronger Victors, understand the show must go on and we have to live up to its asking price. Others, like Art, have failed.

"You should go to them," Art muses from behind me, when they move onto Twelve and then mutter to one another. I look back at my District partner, her hand returning to the horse as she strokes down its nose and towards its neck.

"What do you mean?"

_Go with them? Is that really the way...?_

"You know what I mean. They'll provide a safety net no one here can guarantee. You have the greatest chance with them, and they'll accept you, because you're the type of person they can see potential in."

Not once does she raise her eyes, or stop the movement in her hand. It's as if she's whispering to the horse, how gentle her voice is. And yet, my interest is a hundred percent trained on what she has to say.

There's always been that sense with Art, the serene, numbness to her that's hypnotic in the strangest way.

"I don't want to leave you alone."

She laughs, finally breaking contact with the horse and leveling her eyes with my own. "There's no such thing as District loyalty in a place that demands one survivor. I'll be alright, I want you to look out for you. Like I'll look out for myself."

_The Careers._

The idea scares me, because it makes me the person people should fear and disrespect. Hate, almost. Not amongst us other Victors, but back home where they're called monsters.

But it fills me with something I need to feel, in a place like this.

Hope.

And that single feeling is what will motivate me to this decision. I have to do what's best for myself, and that means joining the very people the world has grown to hate.

* * *

**Astrea Cartelle, 20 years old;  
District One Female.**

* * *

"For the hundredth time, whatever, I forgive you."

"I don't believe y-"

Three sets of eyes turn to me, pausing their conversation. The trio from Seven stare in my direction as I hitch the bottom of my ballgown up to my knees, swaying closer with a bright smile. None of them, not even the large chap mirrors it, all slightly antagonistic to my arrival. Oh well, these aren't Careers after all. They don't understand the way things work around here.

"Hiya," I greet, bouncing closer. Down the line, Lennox starts laughing obnoxiously, snorting, with Braelyn clapping her hands. My fingers twitch, lips curling the wrong way. I should be down there, but there's something here too tempting not to latch onto.

"Hi!"

Silence.

"Heya!" I wave, smiling brightly. Again, no one responds. The old man continues to gawp at me, rather offensively I must say. Deep down, I'm aware that I can't keep it up for too long, but maybe they're just stunned by my presence. It wouldn't be the first time, plus, it's good to scope out the competition. They can say what they want about me, but underneath all this, I know what I'm doing.

"Sooo, how are you guys?" I step closer to Erika Marsh, drawing the question mainly on her. When her lips start to gradually open, hope flashes up, and then explodes when her mouth closes.

"You do understand," I grit my teeth, forcing out the words in an overly pleasing tone. "It's common courtesy to reply to someone attempting a conversation."

"It's common courtesy to keep your nose out of other people's business."

The younger girl, really, my only reason for being here stabs a finger towards my chest. Devi Neylon, the newest Victor since me. The person who _stole _my spotlight. I try to keep a composed face, but it doesn't work. I'm aware of eyes turning to locate Devi's rising voice, it's embarrassing in a sense, but eyes are eyes. They're trained on me.

"I only came to talk to three people I'm interested in knowing more about. I'm sorry if I caused offense."

Devi snorts, clapping her hands dramatically, slowing between each one. "Yeah real good. Please, Astrea you're here for me, and me only."

This is the problem with people from District Seven, heck, all the Districts except for us elite Careers. They're unaware with how they should behave around other people, people who a favorable in the Capitol's eyes and have a lot more privilege to their lives than scroungers rotting in the dirt. I try to act accepting to all of them, and it's shoved straight back in my face, completely ungrateful to the fact I'm sparing my breath on conversing with them.

So, maybe I am here for Devi Neylon, to see the whole fuss with the newest Victor. But it's true also, scoping out the competition gives us an edge. And if I can get Devi thinking about our little encounter rather than helping her useless cases, all the better for me.

"Don't flatter yourself Devi, if I wanted you, I'd pick a better time. I know you're ever so busy, but I wanted to say congratulations to you two." I turn my head to Meridian and Erika, who seem slightly bemused, and scared at the same time. "It must be great to be back here, the Capitol of all places."

"Literally," Devi laughs again, shaking her head, "are you for real? You're off to die you pampered little-"

"Devi," Meridian finally pipes up, shaking his head.

"Mr Vaelin, do the Capitol proud."

"Yeah okay, this bitch is getting on my nerves." Devi steps forwards, striking out a hand and pushing fast into my shoulder. I hold back a gasp, stumbling back with my gown nearly tripping me over. Further down the line, total silence has swept over the Careers, breaking their shouts of amusement.

I spare one second to look over my shoulder, and there's Atticus, moving closer towards this Chariot. Devi raises another hand, stepping closer.

"You really don't want to do that."

She tilts her neck to the side, grotesquely cracking something. "Oh, I really do."

When her hand flies out to strike, I let go of my ballgown and jump backwards, dodging the slap. Atticus is quickly by my side, stepping between the pair of us. Over his shoulder, the old man is trying to coax Erika up onto the Chariot, ignoring the stares from other Victors and the inhumane growls coming from this... this Victor?

How did someone so uncivilized steal what is rightfully mine? She won because she's a beast, with no heart, no elegance. I won because underneath what I allow people to see, I played it the right way and did things other people might regret, but I accept.

Devi Neylon is a monster.

"Come near me again and I'll kill you."

Atticus sends a warning look in Devi's direction at the threat. I wipe the hair from my eyes, straightening my shoulders and holding back my own urge to lunge and rip that dirty little smirk right from her face. "Don't flatter yourself, this is the last time you'll see me. I don't waste my time in the presence of such barbarians."

Devi swears out loud, and then breaks out laughing. "Seriously, what are you on? Do you even hear yourself. The Capitol doesn't love you, you naïve priss-bitch. You're nothing to them. Like I'll be nothing once one of you lot comes back. And you can go to hell if you think coming over here will push me off my game, more than ever I'm determined to help one of these guys get back home, anything to steal a crown that your fat head can't hope to fit into."

Stunned into silence, I gape at her when she turns to storm off, down the last few Chariots and out of sight. Meridian sighs sadly, turning away when I narrow my eyes in his direction.

"Astrea, let's just go." Atticus grips onto my elbow, pulling me away from District Seven and towards the Career group. My cheeks start brightening red, warming up as my stomach starts to curdle. That didn't go to plan, not at all.

I thought- No, it doesn't matter. There are other ways to get what I want. Devi may be all the craze right now, but it just so happens I already know the answer to how to steal back what I _deserve. _It's why I volunteered, and amongst that empty drivel she shouted, she spoke the truth back to me. She made it all the more clear.

The person that returns will be the Victor of Victors. Remembered forever, name carved in gold and held above Panem as the ultimate celebrity.

And it doesn't matter if I have to get my hands dirty, or shed the respect I have to myself if it means I can be that person. I'll kill each and every Victor here if it means that title. I'll use my brain and my body to secure it, anything and everything at my disposal.

Devi's wrong about the crown not being for me.

There's no one else that deserves it.

No one else more fitting than Astrea Cartelle.

* * *

**Amriel Chamblin, 26 years old;  
District Nine Female.**

* * *

At the sound of a whistle, Jonah takes my hand and hoists me up into the Chariot. Both of us are clad head to toe in fine, thin strands of wheat tied round our bodies, white material layered underneath to protect our modesty. I grin at Jonah's uncomfortable face as he twirls a strand of grain poking up from his chest, the material lowered down.

"Perverted woman," he grumbles. Another whistle goes and further down the queue, the large golden doors open, floods of Capitol cheers and flashing lights illuminating everyone in their fashionable, and bizarre outfits.

It's wild, the noise and atmosphere. It's plunging me straight back into the time I spent here, the very first period of me going through the phase of being a tribute. At the thought of that, unwanted images start to sprout at the back of my mind, images I fight back and smile through.

Jonah turns to face my direction, an uneasy grin on his face.

"You alright there?"

I nod, chuckling brightly. "Perfect."

As the Capitol's applause rains down all the way through to the back of these stables, I feel his rough, calloused hand thread through my fingers. Despite the pain he's in, and everything he tries to fight with, he retains the Jonah that people saw before.

The Jonah I sadly never got to see, but piece by piece, it's coming together. He's like me, both of us once so happy, and both of us trying to keep that sense of accepting life to the same degree we always did. It makes life ten times easier than wallowing in our grief and torment.

"I know it's hard, being back." He begins, smile growing wider. His eyes aren't quite there, distant and staring at a spot over my shoulder, but the grin on his face, the infectious kindness is real and true. It's impossible to feel down about yourself when Jonah's in your company, and it works well with me, because the same can be said of my presence.

I just hope people accept us for us, rather than casting a blind eye, judging because we aren't strong fighters or sulking, brooding Victors who are trying to distance themselves and work strategies into survival. I'm taking it day by day, and it's working. For me, and Jonah, our alliance already cemented before we had to discuss it.

"They're a rowdy bunch, last time I was here, I nearly fainted." Memories pop back up, happier ones though, funny ones that I begin to laugh at. Jonah was a mentor that year, not mine, but alongside Eithne. Whether he remembers, I'm not sure, but he reflects my emotions on his face and starts to nod his head, giggling.

"Try not to faint this time, Rachel can be very strict if you ruin her reputation."

"Rachel's a prickly old woman, but she cares about us. That's more than can be said of other people I've met... afterwards."

Jonah nods, squeezes my hand reassuringly, and lets go. As District Six rolls out, I start to steady myself, one hand on the metal bar bolted in, and another ready to wave and accept the Capitol's positive reception. Regardless of our District, we are Victors, there will always be more cheers for those at the front, but even for us, the noise will be deafening.

Jonah's face betrays the emotions he's trying to hide. He doesn't like being the center of attention, not in the slightest. He works better with people at the sidelines, which is why despite his words of comfort, I'll do my very best to help him through this.

There are different ways people here take their situation. Some people let it suffocate them, denial a first stage towards their death, and then depression that completely overwhelms their chances. Then, there's the realists, the people who have a chance, know they have a chance, and fight with either a smile or a frown.

And then there's me, I don't care if I'm not the greatest fighter, the fact I've won is testament to skills I possess deep down, somewhere. Skills I can draw out maybe, harness for my survival and Jonah's too. Whether or not it's wise to let connections get in the way of self-preservation, I don't care about rules and regulations. Expected human reactions mean nothing to me.

Jonah and I are a team, a weak team, but a team that'll get through this.

"Show time," he mutters, face paling. One of his hands, the one tightened round the bar, goes stark white at the knuckles. I nudge him in the arm with my elbow, and as his face twists to meet my eyes, I give him the warmest smile I can, encouragement pouring through my eyes. We've mastered this look, the way we can express words through just our eyes.

He bites his bottom lip, shakes his head, and then the corner of his mouth flicks up slightly. It's enough, it has to be.

Our Chariot rolls on out, steady and lined perfectly with Eight's just in front. Preston waves amiably to each side, over and over. Cecil's approach is half-hearted, but it's enough to get some of them roaring his name.

Then the spotlight reaches us, the new arrivals, and the Capitol folk chant our names. Jonah. Amriel. Over and over, a repeated chorus of applause and deafening roars that speak of approval and acceptance.

It's enough to fill me up from head to toe with the feeling that this is possible. Even if deep down, I know the way it works here, what they're really cheering for, it doesn't faze me. Because they're still recognizing that us two are here, and we're candidates for the last survivor.

I hate to think about everyone dying, what we'll have to do through again, something that fills up our nightmares. But it's in the future, and I'm here to tackle it day by day and forget about what-ifs, and problems that I can't change when they do arrive.

I let go of the bar, balancing myself and raise my left hand, waving at anyone and everyone. My other hand finds Jonah's, without having to look at him. His fingers intertwine with mine, and when I cast a sideways glance, his other hand is matched with my own approach to the Capitol.

They soak it up and spit it back out a hundred times louder, waving frantically, blowing kisses, throwing roses.

Ten follows out, but somewhere within the crowds our names continue to ring out.

"You're doing great," Jonah whispers, shaking like a leaf, but staying strong. He won't admit to the fact he's struggling, transferring it to me so he can assist someone else, anyone that means he won't have to face his own problems.

It's okay though, it will always be okay. I nod, smiling, and grip onto his hand tighter.

We're a team, united in our situation and our care for one another.

I'll save him, and he'll save me.

And somehow, one of us has the chance to make it home again. I know we do.

* * *

**Aedric Surran, 38 years old;  
District Twelve Male.**

* * *

Thea takes one look at me, one quick, millisecond glance, and she explodes into a fit of laughter. The Capitol continue to throw down their support, and Thea continues to soak it all up with her chest puffed out. Even so, she still finds my get-up as amusing as she did when I first stepped out.

Unlike Thea, dressed in a disgustingly provocative black-colored outfit, far too tight for someone of her age, it's my lack of clothes that leaves me squirming in the cold. I grind my teeth together, partly out of frustration, and partly out of the temperature, gripping onto the sides and trying to elicit more responses from the Capitol.

It's hard to make people love you when you've only got a dark piece of leather tied round your waist. And it's not like I'm Mr Macho.

I sigh, sagging my shoulders and staring at Thea, who turns to face me as we begin to grind to a halt.

"The Capitol hates a sulker," she teases, wagging a finger left and right.

"I can't be bothered," I say, just as we stop in front of the President's balcony. There he stands, arriving through thick, velvet curtains to rain down his sweet words of prosperity and comfort. I stare hard in his direction, nothing more than a speck on his shoe, but at least I'm not continuing this fake show that other people continue to uphold.

Thea and I get along because of where we're from, but these other Victors, most wouldn't even waste their breath on me, and others only stare at me with mild disgust. Of course I don't blame them, but it makes it a million times harder to deploy what I have in mind to ensure I actually win.

Even if that means Thea returns in a wooden box.

I have to forget about that, I have children at home. I'm doing whatever it takes, whatever I must do to earn this group's trust. I have to.

"Give it time Aedric," Thea says, lowering her voice. Of all the people, I thought it would be Thea who would hate me for what I did. But in a sea of people, secretly hating my actions and only loving the food I provided through victory, there she was to welcome me with open arms.

Thea nursed me through the nightmares, and brought me back to reality when all else felt like it was going to fall into ruin. And now that we're back, Thea knows exactly what I hope to do.

Do the very same thing I did in my Games, and take the crown through any means necessary.

"I can't give it time if all they see is me and you smiling. They're just going to think I'm doing nothing but planning."

"With that sort of attitude, it's almost as if you hate them all. It's not their fault they see you in that light, after what you did in your Games. You're one of the Capitol's favorites, and it's for that very reason they're going to avoid you."

I grumble something, and sigh again, listening absently to the President's drivel. When it comes to a conclusion, we're forced to make the ring once more. I put no energy into waving or calling out to certain people in the crowd. People who only want to see me dead, and up to my knees in the guts of Victors, that may not accept me, but are people with proper families and have been through hell once already.

I don't think the way I do because I have something against them, I think the way I do because I'm not the strongest person around and to ensure I keep the promise I made my wife and children, I utilize other skill-sets I have.

Thea and I are just trying to work out a few kinks in the plan. How to get others to accept me, when all they do is look away.

"I can't believe I'm helping you win anyway, what about me, I have a life too. The booze won't drink itself."

I laugh and nudge her with my elbow, which she responds to with a harsh push into the side. "You're not helping me win, at the end of it all I know you Thea, you're still going to fight just as hard to make sure you win. You're only helping me because there's no one else who can, or will for that matter."

She nods, and just when she's about to say something else, the Chariot comes to its final resting point. At the bottom of the Training Center, fourteen stories of pure, monstrous metal, I help Thea out and settle my eyes on the only entrance visible.

"We should go."

Already, stylists and prep-teams begin to flock the room, fussing over their tributes, fawning over those they clearly have a crush on. Thea takes one look and groans, nodding her head and gripping onto my arm. Her speed is somewhat lackluster, so I help pull her along, hobbling as we aim for the door.

I have time to implement a proper plan during training, ways in which to secure an alliance and all that my plan encompasses.

For tonight, it's purely about conjuring up that plan, because I need a plan for me to have any shot.

"Do your kids know what you did?"

We near the doors, out of sight and earshot of the other Victors. Cady is probably wandering around looking for us, but she knows Thea and I, and it won't be long before she lands on the answer. I look down at Thea, the pit in my stomach growing wider and wider.

Each action I ever make digs around inside of me, worsening everything. My conscience bearing the brunt of each horrible deception I go through with.

My family helped lessen it, and with my victory, I never thought I'd have to fight for my own life again. I thought I could finally be the person I wanted to be, without reverting to what I was in my own Arena.

Now, that hope is lost.

"They know I fought for my life, and that I'm going to fight for it again. They don't know specifics, but I'd rather my children were saved that until they're older."

Thea hums her understanding, and we slide on through to the lobby. Avoxes meander around, and on our arrival, immediately straighten to attention.

Thea salutes one, straightening her back, her serious face on. It takes all I can not to burst out laughing when the Avox returns a very confused salute in response.

"At ease soldier," she announces, before giggling and linking her arm once more with mine.

"You just have to accept that these people, even little old me, are obstacles to being with your kids." We enter the elevator, but all that is blocked out, Thea's words the only focus of my attention. Words I need, and words I fear. "Be who you have to be and do what you have to do. I'm fighting for my life, but you're fighting for something so much more important. Don't hold back, otherwise..."

I nod, not needing her to finish her words. Knowing the otherwise.

If I hold back, if I don't do the worst acts against my morality, I'm not making it far.

I'll die.

I'll never get to see my family again.

* * *

**Aaaaand, look who's back! **

* * *

_**Favourite POV?**_

_**Which tributes stood out and why?**_

* * *

**Sorry about the really late update, nearly a month I think. Three weeks maybe, not sure. But anyway, exams are a curse, they ruin lives, I hate them. But I've only got like one left and it's not so difficult to revise for that one, so I had time to write this chapter.**

**If you read Dreams of Dust, Megan's on holiday so expect an update when she returns, er, and regardless of what Teddy says, Textiles is still running, but Chaos has issues with her computer so wait up for that as well. A lot of waiting this past month, but summer is nearly upon us, and fanfiction will hopefully pick up xD**

**Next up, we start training!**

**oh and on a random side note just because I can, who's excited for the GoT finale, I know I am ;D**


	7. Training Day One

**Chapter Seven.**

* * *

**Training Day One.**

* * *

**Lennox Delane, 27 years old;  
District Two Male.**

* * *

"You're only going to get yourself killed."

"On the contrary, I think I stand a very good chance," I swipe a finger along Avery's cheek, laughing at the growl she reacts with. Swatting away my finger, she retreats into the back of the elevator, crossing her arms tight around her chest.

"Lighten up, I know you miss your cats and all, but you might as well make the most of the time you have here. Chin up love, a smile makes things better."

Avery touches her lips, a twitch in the corner, and slumps her arms to the side. At the sight of my face, brightening red as I fight to hold back a burst of laughter, Avery turns a chilling shade and turns her back to me.

"Don't call me love," she shoots over her shoulder, and on cue, the glass doors open and she slinks out. I watch her go, amused at the way her shoulders are slumped and legs almost drag along the ground. They weren't wrong about Avery, the way she's so caged up inside that house of hers she's become the very animal the Capitol makes her out to be. Smirking, I watch her attach herself to the nearest wall, furthest from the growing central group, and waiting for the trainer.

Might as well make the most of the situation, at least no one's sulking. Or, well, the majority aren't.

The Careers are stationed in the middle, the very air around them off-putting to the others. Before training, people were willing to come up to us, old friends we'd grown accustomed to. Now we're in a place that starts the process of killing, understanding what we have to do to make sure we're the sole survivor, it's as if I've gone back to my own Games.

The non-Careers are the frightened kids they always were, and us Careers, glorified and hated in the center.

"Sup one and all," I place a hand on Atticus' shoulder, cheerfully smiling at him when he looks at me. He returns it brightly, and Braelyn saunters closer, linking her arm with mine. Astrea attempts to step forwards but Braelyn shoots her a look, warning her off.

I love these two, already they're operating like classic, spoilt children. Braelyn's close to me already, so Astrea wants in. And when Astrea wants in, Braelyn becomes incredibly protective and stubborn.

It's comical to watch unfold.

"No squabbling ladies."

Braelyn laughs, flicking her hair over her shoulder. "Me and Astrea are best of friends, aren't we Astrea?"

The way Astrea's face contorts for the brief second she's caught off guard ruins any false facade she attempts to put up. With a too charming smile, she nods her head and links arms with Atticus; Carson lingering behind her.

We're all passively trying to upstage the other, and that's what I like about this group. Apart from the tension between the two girls, I don't see us falling apart at the seams unlike typical years, it's all just harmless fun. I'm all for dramatics, but there comes a time when things need to pull back to a more composed, seriousness that our title gives off.

We are the Careers.

This is a sort of career we chose for ourselves. And like in any career, we have to be professional.

But only when necessary.

I can't handle too much of the same thing, it gets old far too quickly.

"I'd like to make it clear, first of all, I'm not here to lead. Frankly, I don't think we should have a leader, maybe more of a democracy or something. That way the girls place nicely and don't mess up their pretty faces. You know us boys, we never know what to do when you girls get all hot and bothered."

The two of them look at one another, shrug, and nod their heads at the same time.

"What about Avery?" Carson speaks up, for the first time I've noticed. I don't mind the fact he's more reserved, it balances out the louder personalities. He'll be reliable in the future.

"She's probably licking herself somewhere, don't mind her. Maybe we can find-"

Even as the Head Trainer comes out, clad in the same uniform he wore when I was standing here for the first time, the tributes don't seem to pay much attention. Over his words, I see a tall figure move swiftly through the group, others step out of his way, and once we all seem to notice his presence our group falls to silence.

Chilton Jones extends a hand in my direction, leveled with my chest.

"Ah, the hand thing's a bit much don't you think. I prefer a friendly hug, don't you?" I grip onto his shoulders, his large frame quite daunting if I'm honest, and pat his back. The expression that twists his features, wiping the amiable smile from his face, is as amusing as Astrea's brief moment of embarrassment.

He composes himself and pretends not to feel the pressure of all of our eyes on him. He's holding himself remarkably well, considering the situation. Then again, we know Chilton. We know why he's here.

"I was wondering, Lennox, and of course the rest of you, if-"

I raise a hand, cutting him off. "Yes, yes we'd love to have your handsome face amongst our friendly little family. But don't address all these deals with me, I'm not the leader. I don't like that much responsibility, I prefer to let things flow-" I make a funny little hand movement, mimicking the motion of a wave, and watch his face brighten with a smile. "Now welcome to The Crew, we're here to kick some butt and look damn attractive whilst doing so."

At that, no one else says a further word. Chilton steps back to join the right hand side of Carson, and we all watch and listen to the trainer conclude his usual speech about dehydration and that nonsense. People die from arrows and spears, the last time I saw a tribute catch a cold and sneeze to death was... well, never. It doesn't happen as often as they'd like us to think.

They just want the other trainers, those who man such stations, to feel as if they're actually doing something. Oh well, if it's anything like my year, the non-Careers will play with some berries, and we'll fight with actual weapons.

It's a system that never changes.

Sometimes that can be good, things staying the way they should be. It brings order to a world of chaos.

When the trainer calls for us to disperse, it happens the way it did for me. Some District partners stick together, whilst others go off alone, brooding over their inevitable deaths.

And somewhere, deep down, the thought lightens up the side to me, the side that we all have inside of ourselves if we trained. The person deep down that killed those four children without a second thought, knowing what it was he was doing, and did it anyway because that's what it took to win.

The person that actually found some sense of pleasure from doing so, because he was accomplishing years of training, he was becoming the person everyone expected him to be.

When we turn to face the racks of weapons, a shiver runs down my spine, wiping the smile clean from my face. A chink in my armor, the same thing Astrea and Chilton couldn't hold back.

For all my laughter, I'm still the monster I was back then.

I need to work myself out, who I really am.

It's why I'm here.

And why I'm not, in the end, afraid to die.

* * *

**Autumn Mulone, 21 years old;  
District Six Female.**

* * *

Alone, the knife sits on the shelf, lit up. Sharp and sinister, I edge closer towards it, head bowed with my eyes peeking through hair that falls down my face. Everyone else darkens out from the world, non-existent entities that mean nothing, never meant anything, and will never mean anything come the future.

It's me and the knife.

Did they think I'd have to wait until the Games, locked away, packed tight with meaningless faces that meander around, talking and shouting louder than they should be, before I did it? Does it matter to them so much that my death is prolonged for the first few seconds, when all it takes is a single slice, a slip of the hand, and I'm gone today? Here and now, the pain can go, forever.

I don't have to suffer any longer.

My legs start to move faster, set on course for the bliss the knife will bring me. Other voices drift over my head and disperse, pointless words I ignore and continue to ignore. When I'm so close, so very close that I can almost sense the way it will feel, knowing what it's like and finally being able to go through to the other side, a hand clamps down on my wrist.

A Peacekeeper glares at me, and in that one look, reality snaps back into existence and the blurs start to take their shape again. He shakes his head and only releases my hand when I pull back, bowing my head and turning to walk away. Looking again, there are plenty more knives alongside it, but in my haze all I saw was the one.

I'll have to wait, because they'll make me wait.

But they can't stop me when death lurks round ever corner, when it's what the Capitol wants to see, and I can give it to them freely, without restraint. They think we as Victors should be pleased with the life we secured through blood and tears. We're supposed to be grateful that there was hope for one person to survive, and that it turned out to be us.

They're wrong. It's better to be dead.

Maybe it's selfish of me, perhaps even evil to kill myself when twenty-three died those few years ago so I could stand here breathing. It is wrong, I know it is wrong. Unfair on the families that still mourn their loss to this very day.

I accept I'm a selfish person, because if saving myself makes me selfish, I'll continue to be the person no one wants to talk to. Even now, Veryan is the one person who has so far spared a second thought to acknowledge my presence. If others have, I've paid no attention, because I do not want to even make sense of the fact that other Victors are here.

I'm happy to be here.

But most, through some strength I've never managed to find, have secured lives for themselves. It's wrong for them to be here, and yet, I can't do anything to save them. All I can do is save myself.

"Excuse me."

The two words, called out in a voice heavy with sweetness, pull me from my dwellings and back into the training room. I'm by the weapons, with them to my side and the large expanse of various stations to the other.

I focus on her face, pretty, with blonde hair that ends above her shoulders. Her eyes are narrowed, but the smile makes her seem all the more welcoming. It makes me anxious, but at least she's not shouting at me.

"Hello," I whisper, crossing my arms round my stomach. Protection from invisible harm.

"I'm so very sorry to have to ask, but could you please vacate the area, we Careers are trying to train and your presence is quite bothersome."

Over her shoulder, the group comes into focus, and that's when a name attaches itself to this figure. Astrea Cartelle. I swallow thickly, and the nerves start to burn across my skin. All of them stare at me, one of them arching his neck and grinning at me.

"Go easy on her Astrea, she looks lost."

She smiles again, shaking her head. "Are you lost? I can ask someone to guide you back to a station if you like."

"I'm not lost, I'm-" What am I doing? My one purpose is coming soon, and for now, I'm filling in the blanks with, well, nothing. "I-I"

Astrea frowns, sighing. "I don't bite, you can speak freely to me. What is it with you people and not knowing how to talk, is that what you're taught where you come from?"

Veryan might shout at her for that.

Others might hit her, or stalk off with their head high, keeping their dignity.

I stutter over my words, trying to piece together something, and all it does is infuriate her further.

"I haven't the time for this. Please leave, you're ruining the time we have to harness our skills so we can kill you all."

"Charming," the same Victor shouts, laughing with the others gawping behind her.

She takes a step forward, about to place a hand on my shoulder, then grimacing and thinking twice of it. She thinks she's better than me. Maybe she is, because she has some kind of strength to stand up for what she wants and speak to me, even if she's harsh and cruel with some false sweetness behind what she does.

I look at the ground, and feel a finger tilt my chin up.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you."

"P-Pleas-"

"Go, now, before I lose my temper. I asked nicely, and you're still standing in our way."

"I-I'm only..."

She groans, and when my eyes hover over the knife, a different knife, Astrea's eyes sparkle.

"You're that girl, aren't you? The girl who doesn't want to live. Oh my, you're like a celebrity where I come from." _By celebrity, you mean you people laugh at my misfortune. My attempts at taking my life, spread across the country, because there's no privacy for anyone. _"Maybe you should save us all the trouble and do it now, here. It would bring down the number. Only don't make it messy, I spent a lot of time this morning trying to make sure I looked presentable."

"She's hilarious, is she always like this?" Lennox, I think his name is, nudges the District partner of Astrea in the shoulder. He only groans, rolling his eyes and locking them with my own, tear-filled stare.

"I'm not... not now... not..."

"Well, how about we make a deal. Leave now, and I'll happily oblige come the bloodbath and end your pitiful existence. Alright?" Her tone rises, and a smile graces her features once more, high-pitched as she extends a firm hand.

I take it, shaking, and then pull back and step away.

"Good, glad to meet you, I'll see you soon then? Come the Games, look for me, and I'll ease your burden."

_Or I could jump off the plate, and take away your satisfaction._

I keep my mouth closed, lower my head and walk away with the group reuniting, Astrea laughing over them all.

They can laugh all they want.

They can hurt me until their hearts are content.

But in a few days time, I won't be hurting anymore. No longer caught between agony and happiness.

I'll be free.

* * *

**Mirah Surrett, 44 years old;  
District Three Female.**

* * *

I watch her pummel away at the training dummies, slashing at the fabric, red tufts of cotton sprouting from within. The spearhead catches on the neck, slicing awkwardly until the pole leaves her fingers and crashes to the ground.

_Is she the one, the right person?_

I continue to watch apprehensively, peeking between two other dummies attached to hooks. I don't want to storm up to her until I'm a hundred percent sure it's the wisest course of action. From here, I see the strength she possesses, but also the cold aura that emanates from the very way she bends down to pick up the spear. A scowl plastered on her face, lips contorted with fury, and then self doubt.

It's there, the same thing we all have inside ourselves. My own manifests itself into other, harsher emotions. Even now, seeing Inara Sigmone stare at the dummy with a downbeat face, I can't help but criticize internally the way she's acting.

We all want to make allies and seek out approval from others, so if we don't look the part and seem as antagonistic as she does, no one will ever try to attach themselves to her. I know it's not for everyone, the whole idea of allies. Especially us Victors who understand the pain of losing an ally, but here we're amongst friends, and each time her eyes gaze over Tristan in the far corner, she does nothing but turn away and try to cast him from her mind.

It's intriguing to watch, the multitude of emotions playing on her face, emotions I can respect and identify with. Emotions I want to scorn because they aren't wise, and her weaknesses aren't helpful in my decision making.

I need an ally, though. And despite her faults, Inara is a tough woman, hardened through her experiences.

My feet are light against the floor, having mastered the idea of stealth when loud footsteps were synonymous with death. Inara looks over her shoulder when I'm just about to approach, tuned into my arrival. I have to remember these are people who have already experienced the Games, they're jumpy and aware of each and every noise that creeps up on them.

Sometimes that can be a hindrance, maybe the fact we're so broken works out for the best, now that we're here again.

"Good afternoon Inara," I say, adding a smile. She only stares at me, then down at the spear, and back over at the shredded dummy with half its neck hanging on a thin line of thread. "Sorry to bother you, but you looked lonely."

"I'm trying to learn how to use this again," the spear leaps up a little into the air, and she catches it with her other hand. A show of intimidation, or what? "It's been a while since I've had to hold a weapon. The last time..."

Her eyes glaze over and pain twists her features. I wait, patiently, watching her struggle to cope. Emotions are a torturous thing, sometimes I think it would be better to be robotic in our everyday lives and not have such burdens weighing us down.

How easy it would be to kill people you know if you really didn't have any connection. Even the Careers, with the way they are and hold themselves, are adults, not children. The majority are in the same boat as us, plucked out from their lives and forced here.

Even the volunteers must have a reason, no one seeks out glory for the second time. Otherwise, they're as deluded as their teenage counterparts.

"I was wondering Inara," I begin to say, just as she relaxes from the pain and continues to stare harshly into my eyes. The spear looks too out of place here, not in the sense it doesn't match the area, but I haven't felt threatened in a long time. All that misery is behind me.

Words start to formulate in my mind, the way I wanted to go about this with a certain air of confidence, and all it does is fumble out and leave me. Warmth flushes through my cheeks and Inara, for the first time since I think I've observed her, grins.

"If you want to train with me, you can Mirah. It's not illegal."

The one dummy that's almost totally destroyed, falls in a heap, the last remnants of dyed cotton spewing out. Inara steps over it to the next one, grasping onto a spare spear and chucking it to me. Awkwardly, my fingers wrap round the shaft and I hoist it up to the level of my chest.

"Ever used a spear?"

"I prefer a knife, myself. I'm guessing you're familiar with one, huh?"

She takes the first stab, and I follow suit, a timid attack that grazes the arm of the dummy. Inara laughs dryly and shakes her head, coming towards me with the spear clattering to the ground.

"You need to bend your arm back properly, otherwise you'll have no momentum going forwards and the strike won't be powerful enough to cause any damage."

I stare at her and frown, looking at the ruins of the dummy, up at Inara, and down at the deadly point.

"I'm guessing the idea of causing damage doesn't sit well with you?"

"Kind of hurts my stomach," I laugh. Even if I try to make myself aware and suited for these situations. Even if I watched the Games, readying myself after the twist in case such a situation happened, I can't do this so willingly.

I hate to admit to anyone, but I'm scared.

Inara shakes her head and smiles sadly, taking my hand and positioning my fingers properly. "I understand it's not easy, not even the second time round. But we'll get used to it, won't we?"

"We?" I ask, surprised.

She stares at my shocked face, and then blushes and averts eye contact. Everything she does I continue to watch, her body movements, the way she can't look at my face, but most importantly, at the way her lips quiver upwards into a smile. A relieved smile.

"I guess it is we, for now, anyway."

"We like that very much," I joke, pulling my elbow back. With enough of a forward push, exerting as much power as I can, the point tears through the side and would-be guts pool out and over the spearhead. I groan, but look over at Inara, nodding my thanks.

Maybe together, we're imperfect. Two broken Victors, trying to piece together a life that continues to fall apart no matter how old we get. We aren't young. We're older women, frail and weaker than some others, but stronger than those that have grown even older and accepted peace, only to have it stolen from them.

None of these Victors, not even the Careers, deserve to die.

I'm not a monster, even if I've taken lives before, taken them so I could move on with my own. Alive and well.

But with Inara, it works. It feels right.

That's all I want in an ally, the same feeling I experienced in my own Games. Despite how hard it could get, I know we'll manage for the time being.

I'm thinking about the now and not the future, if only to save my mind from hurting itself. Because in the future, I can't see a happy ending. There's no such thing.

* * *

**Artemisia Amaryllis, 32 years old;  
District Eleven Female.**

* * *

Across the hall, Chilton spars with Carson, parrying his attacks and lunging on the offensive. From my own place, all the way on the opposite side, I smile contently and pick up the small berry.

He followed his head rather than his heart, and here, that's the smartest thing someone can do. Severing his ties with me for the better of himself, committing to his own survival rather than anyone else's.

I'm proud of him.

Twirling the berry between my fingers, my other hand automatically shoots to my neck and starts to twist and turn the little wooden pendant. Distant, unwelcome memories come with the action, memories that burst behind my eyes in grisly, horrid detail. I see _him. _I see my brother, the day he volunteered, the day he killed himself.

The day I won.

I shake my head harshly, digging my nails into the scars on my thighs and scratching at the skin. The pain starts to numb the impact of so many visions swirling inside my skull, pressing to be released, to surge out and overwhelm me. I continue to scratch, harder and faster, picking up pace with my other hand clutched tightly round the wooden pendant, holding for life.

My chest hurts, but with it, I take deep breaths, knowing I need to calm down. A trainer walks past me carrying a blunt sword, eyes up the action on my legs, and quickly drops it to level his eyes with mine.

"Tribute. I order you to halt."

I stare at him, a faint, flicker of a smile tracing up my cheeks. Even when the pain continues to free me from my horror, he continues to stare wide-eyed at me like I'm some sort of maniac. They just don't understand what it's like, what I have to do to help myself. I'm not here to deepen my anguish, or plunge head first into darkness that other Victors have done so previously.

For my brother, I'm here to win, otherwise I would have given up years ago.

But right now, when they come again inside my head, there needs to be distraction. And pain is the most comfortable of all distractions.

"Please," he grabs my hands, and looking into his worried eyes, my hand falls limp, and my fingers slump away from the pendant.

He sighs with relief, and helps me to my feet. "Thank you," I nod respectfully. Over his shoulder, I keep my eyes trained on some random wall, but he continues to linger by my side out of worry. I understand why people do so, because they see certain things inside of me that ring true of broken Victors that can't handle the pressure of a life they fought for, and end up giving up so they have some sense of freedom.

I'm not like those Victors.

Somewhere deep down, the thought of doing that intensifies an anger I haven't shown since before the Games. When life seemed so simple. The idea of giving up isn't what I am, but there's weakness to my resolve, and I'm aware of it. It's why Chilton had to go, but why I also need my own connection, because there's no chance of me surviving without help.

And I have to survive.

I have to win. _For him. _

When my eyes start to hover further down the wall, they lock onto a station, and two pairs of eyes look at me, almost as worried as the trainer. I place a gentle hand on his shoulder and smile again.

"I'm going to go and train, thank you again."

If he understood what I was thinking, maybe he and everyone else would leave me alone. I'm not as lost a cause as they might interpret.

My leg throbs as I walk on it, a limp slowing me down as warmth trickles down my thigh. The feeling fills up my stomach and pushes me on further, a sort of guide, a motivation that this is all real and I'm here. The duo from Nine watch me, apprehensive but welcoming when I sit down to join them.

Bits of rope and sticks are scattered around in front of them, without any sense of direction or aim in what it is they're doing.

"Amriel and Jonah, right?"

The pair nod, and it's Amriel that opens her mouth first to answer me back.

"Artemisia, or Art, I think that's what you like." When I nod, she brightens up and pretends not to notice the way I quickly register the fact her eyes keep flickering to my thigh. Even over the material, I could get to the scars, and she bites her lip when Jonah clutches onto her hand.

"How have you two been handling the situation?" I try to speak up, but it's hard. I don't like initiating conversation unless it's purposeful, and although this is, there are times when I want to shrink away and slide into shadows. Chilton was so much better at this than me, broadcasting himself as the best type of Victor in the Capitol's eye.

I preferred to be reclusive and shy away from the public, help from the sidelines as some meager way of making up for the pain I'd caused.

But these two, they're genuine people. I can sense it when I meet someone, a sort of feeling I knew in my brother, despite how distorted and confused it was.

"We've been coping, it's hard-" Jonah pauses, sighing. "But we're getting there, I know these people, all of them. It's different to the first time."

We all sort of pause to scan the room, finding memorable characters, and those that are still famous despite how they might try to live their lives with some semblance of lost peace. I stare back at them, and ease closer, my knee pressing against Amriel's.

"I can't be with Chilton, you know."

The pair nod in unison, understanding when they see him with the Careers. He's the type of person they probably hate right now, for his decision. I motivated him to do so because it ensured he got to live longer than he would have done with me.

I don't want to be a burden on these two.

But it's the only way I'm going to win, with allies, with companionship.

"You could be with us, if you like?" Amriel chimes, looking at Jonah and waiting for his nod. When he does, Amriel clings onto my other hand, her fingers twined with Jonah's as well. Like some sort of united circle, Amriel squeezes my fingers, even when my eyes start to wander over her shoulder.

It's hard to focus all the time.

Faces from the past merge with faces of the present, hurting me, reminding me of characters that died in my Games, hurt me in my Games, and left me as the sole survivor. Amriel squeezes again, and in my distant train of thought, I mumble a yes.

I have my alliance.

The perfect group to help myself.

And maybe I can still accomplish what I task myself with doing everyday. The one way there's hope that my past actions won't suffocate me, ways I can make up for all the torment and misery.

Maybe I can help them too.

* * *

**Er, enjoy the questions below! (I like having something here, I don't like the Author's Note, opening with the questions eh)**

* * *

_**Favourite POV?**_

_**Which tributes stood out and why?**_

* * *

**Look I'm actually on time!**

**Exams are... over! Finally I'm free from hell and can get on with sleeping until 3PM each day :) Yeah, I have literally zero plans this summer except for a few weeks around my birthday where I'll be pretty busy. Updates should (probably) appear quite often now, if I write two POVs a day, that's an update every two days.**

**Hopefully anyway; realistically I'll say two updates a week. Maybe. Knowing me it'll still be the one.**

**Anyway training is never anything special for me, it's all about alliances rather than the actual training. All that is rather repetitive, so enjoy this chapter for what it is!**

**I like speaking here, so uh another thing, check out my profile if you had a tribute in Textiles. It's kind of over, and it explains it all there. So sorry about that :/**

**Yeah anyway, training continues next chapter, so see you then!**

**extra note again: to all you readers from England, we're good at football aren't we? I'm so proud :')**


	8. Training Day Two

**Chapter Eight.**

* * *

**Training Day Two.**

* * *

**Hazel Finn, 40 years old;  
District Five Female.**

* * *

The last bolt digs deep into the training dummy, the momentum causing it to sway upwards and then back down to ground level. The trainer gladly takes the crossbow from me, scuttling on his little legs to place it back on the rack and wait for my next order.

I shake my head and turn to walk away, listening for the telltale sign of his disappointment. Before I take another step, it's there, a dramatic sigh, and I continue away from his eagerness and onto another station.

It's better for me to avoid the general attention thrown our way because of our title. Some of the others prefer to soak it up and carry it in their stride, whilst others either make do, or purposely step away from the spotlight. If I can focus on myself and myself only, it removes distraction from my journey.

The best part is I find it very hard to be distracted by what others do to me. That's the good thing, maybe the only good thing, about being cast out by those you call loved ones.

When that connection is gone, all connections go. Brief, strong, short, whatever it was, they lose their meaning. Sometimes it felt lonely back in Five, but maybe that's my greatest asset not knowing anyone, or at least not really feeling anything for anyone.

I respect certain people in this room for what they did and what they've done. But I don't like them, don't love them, I don't even hate them.

It's nothing.

"You alright there miss?"

I stare up at the trainer, tall, broad-shouldered, but welcoming with his wide smile and black-rimmed glasses. He motions towards the track, laid out splendidly at the far corner of the hall. Somehow I wandered over here. It doesn't happen much, but everyone here's a little absent-minded at times, part of the process I guess. A never-ending, ever torturous healing process.

"I was just looking around, seeing what there is to do."

He stares at me, then smiles. _Idiot. _I turn to look over my shoulder, barely even able to comprehend the amount of stations there are here. And I'm looking to see what there is to do. As if there wasn't much of a choice. _Idiot._

"Well, here you can either learn to increase your stamina, or boost your speed. Or both, though most people have a tendency towards either short or long distance."

I nod alongside his words and stare at the white stretch, polished against the floor. Speed was never a real asset in my Games, more about tactics and stealth. But someone who doesn't try will never succeed, so I take a tentative step forwards and place my foot against the starting marker.

"There's an automatic timer that will measure your speed and how long it takes the second you step over that line. You set the distance by stopping at a marker set evenly between the track. The longest distance is finishing the circuit."

Again, I nod, and bend my knees into position. I send one last look over my shoulder in his direction and take a deep breath. At least it's tucked away far from the eyes of most people. Unless they purposely come searching for me or what this station has to offer, I won't be seen if I make a fool of myself.

I hate to be shown up. I hate it when something I try to do doesn't work.

So I'm going to make it work and excel at yet another thing. Add another thing that can help me win this godforsaken game.

I shoot off quickly, breezing towards the first marker. The grip on my training boots works perfect, somehow, there's barely a slip or slide in my pace. My bones creak a little, a pain spreading around in my hip area, but I cast that aside.

We're going to be experiencing a lot more pain where we're about to head. Regardless of my aging body, I have to prove to myself more than anyone that I'm still able to win. I won once, I'm not ready to lose the life I fought so hard for.

I pass the first marker, and at that moment, I feel something touch my shoulder. Immediately I lose all sense of focus and look over my shoulder, right into the eyes of another tribute. He's caught up at an insane speed, or maybe I was just slower than I seemed to be.

"Looking good," he smirks, keeping up pace with me. Instantly, I recognise him, but that does nothing to make me feel better. He's one of those Victors, sort of like the Careers, only a little bit better. A _little _bit.

"Tristan, I'm trying to practice here."

"Everyone knows how to run Miss Hazel Finn, or is it Mrs?" He places a hand to his heart and I groan, shaking my head and carrying on forwards. He won't deter me from proving to myself that this is something I can do. Even if knowing that he's here, can do better than me, and will do better than me, sort of knocks my confidence.

"It's Miss, and quite frankly that's none of your business."

"I'm only asking Miss Hazel Finn," he says, quick to bite back with a smile. "Can I ask you something Miss Hazel Finn?"

"You can ask Hazel something, please cease with the Miss."

_He's toying with you, or something. No one in their sane mind at his age would come up to you unless it was to make you sweat and cry over your insecurities._

"Would you-"

"If you want this station to yourself, like you arrogant, awful idiots usually do, then wait until I'm finished. I'm trying to focus."

Somehow at the speed I'm already at, I manage to push faster ahead of him. Maybe it's Tristan slowing down, but the uncomfortable feeling in my stomach starts to settle when I don't have to hear his voice in my ear any longer.

Maybe I snapped, but I don't need him lingering by my shoulder like that, trying to exert that dominance all the young Victors like to do. He's one of those in the spotlight Victors, and they don't care about us, older, quieter, lesser Victors.

The timer stops for me when I reach the beginning. The trainer reads out my time: _2__ minutes, __1__4 seconds. _Whether that's good, I don't know, but Tristan arrives only shortly after. The fact I beat him gives me something to feel happy about.

Although his rejected face makes me feel... guilty. And I shouldn't feel guilty.

"I wasn't trying to force you away, you know. I'm not like that, so don't jump to conclusions."

"Well, I'm-"

"I wanted to ask if you'd care to join me in an alliance. Me and you. If I'm honest, there's no way in hell I'm joining the Careers, and I think joining a more experienced Victor as a partnership works better for both our chances."

_Alliance... with...?_

I stare at him, my shock clearly registering by the way he bursts out laughing. My face grows hot instantly at my inability to mask it down. But an alliance?

I never had one in my Games. I don't think I'm made for one-

"You're the kind of girl who will cut off the alliance when she sees the chance, and I'm willing to take that risk. If you're okay with it."

He extends a hand, confidently making eye contact. I look down at it, then over at the trainer, who flashes me a thumbs up.

He might think it's a good idea. The world might think it's one too. Tristan is handsome, he'll have sponsors for that, not to mention his odds and his strength. He has it all in everywhere I don't. But I provide strengths he doesn't have.

Maybe we need each other.

"You don't mean anything to me Tristan," I reach his hand and shake it, "You're my ally, and that's all. The moment it has to end, it ends. I hope you know that."

"Oh I do Miss Hazel Finn," he laughs, "I most certainly do."

* * *

**Cecil Aradan, 44 years old;  
District Eight Male.**

* * *

"If you think this through, you'll convince yourself otherwise."

My hands ball into fists, and taking the first step, I nod to my own voice and march on forwards. It's easier said than done, going up and talking to them. It's nothing to do with awkwardness or fear at their reactions, it's more of the consequences of what I have to do. I can't tell the future, so what I do in the moment seems good, well, at that moment.

Right now, I'm feeling good vibes about the two of them. They chat to one another kindly, but break apart when they need to break apart and don't jump at the chance to communicate with one another. They have their boundaries without being distant, and neither is clingy.

I need that sort of relationship.

A dependable, trustworthy group that I can look on as friends, without having to feel as if my emotions are wrapped too tight around them. Hopefully, I've found the right people. It's too late to think about changing my mind now. I nod again and close the distance, tapping Mirah Surrett on the shoulder.

Inara seems almost tuned into her ally's thought processes, turning from her own dummy at the same time Mirah does. With both sets of eyes on me, I start to feel the nerves wash through me. Nerves more about what they have to say than what I feel in terms of talking to them.

What if they don't agree? Then I'll have to keep searching, and I need to train. I'm an old man now, or at least hitting the age that makes it hard to run, shoot and throw things. I'm not the boy that left the Arena, and these two aren't, that's what makes them so endearing to me.

"Can we help you?" Inara immediately steps up to Mirah's hip, joining together. Their accusatory stares force a lump in my throat, one I quickly swallow down.

"It's more of what I can help you with, ladies."

"Please don't be flirty," Inara says, shaking her head. "We don't do flirty."

I breathe a sigh of relief, laughing. "Neither do I, I can never quite wrap my head around what it is people want these days. Sometimes I prefer just sitting down away from others, saves me the trouble of having to use my brain."

Mirah raises an eyebrow, smirking at me. Inara seems as closed off as ever, always the one to look reproachful rather than welcoming. If Mirah could do it and gain her trust, then so can I.

All it takes is a bit of work and coaxing out of her shell, she seems the sort to grow angry if you touch a nerve, but that's what I like about her. There are links between how we view ourselves, both of us respect ourselves to the point we don't let others walk all over us. Even Mirah has a personal strength to the way she holds herself, here, between the two of us.

She doesn't shy away under Inara's fiery attitude, even when it might be easier to step down. I need a group that's mentally strong, but ballsy, they know when to act and how to act without shying away from what could happen if they attempt to make sense of things.

"You're not really good at selling yourself, are you?" Mirah asks. She shares a sideways glance with Inara, and almost together, they ease whatever was making them tense up. She extends a hand which I happily shake, something Inara follows up with.

"I guess I don't really like keeping secrets, I am who I am on the outside, people better accept it or they can jog on."

"I like that," Inara says, nodding her head. "But sorry, we don't need another ally-"

"Inara," Mirah nudges her in the side, staring at her ally with narrowed eyes, then back at me. "Could you excuse us for a moment?" She walks off, smiling to try and ease my nerves.

Their whispering isn't all that great, I suppose their gossiping days are over. I catch snippets of my name, Inara's awful way of trying to hide the fact she doesn't trust me, and Mirah attempting to do what I thought she needs: pull her out from those built up walls, letting her see the world for what it is even if it fights to kill her.

"If I could just reiterate, you did say you like me!" I shout louder than needed, soaking in the light chuckling from Mirah. The two mumble some more, dragging on for what feels like hours, but I guess that's what girls like them prefer to do.

Before I get too bored, thinking too much in my head, they return. Inara looks the same she did a second ago, like a poker's shoved right up her... yeah, but there's a difference now. Maybe Mirah got through to her, hopefully. I need this, more than they realise. I need them and hopefully they see the fact that maybe, somehow, they need me also. Not sure how they'll need me, but perhaps I've convinced them in some way that they actually do.

"Here's the deal, you do as we say, what we say and when we say, and we won't kick you out this group. We like you Cecil, we've all known each other for long enough, and we think you'd be a good asset to what we have going on." Inara extends her hand again and maybe far too enthusiastically I shake it, smiling and laughing as it goes up and down.

When she's forced to peel it off, I go bright red and take a step back. Mirah continues to laugh which makes me feel like this whole situation wasn't a total bust, at least I'm amusing her, and at least Inara seems to be warming up to what I've got going on.

Maybe jumping straight into this worked well. I like how it sometimes happens that way. People think I overthink things after I haven't thought them through that well, and when usually that might land me in some serious trouble, it turns out lucky for me.

Maybe I'm just that sort of guy.

"We've also come to know you as the guy, like you said, who doesn't give a damn what people think about them. I do appreciate that, and I respect it. But we need sponsors, and as much as I have to say about this damn Quell and where the Capitol can shove their honour, I need them to like us."

I raise a finger and open my mouth to interject, but think twice of it at the response I get. Yeah, she isn't one to cross. "I'm keeping my mouth shut when they piss me off, and I need you to do that too. If they get to you, you smile and go with it."

I place a hand to my chest, because yes, I get angry at things. I don't like the way we're treated, or how this has happened when we were promised the rest of our lives. But I know what needs to be done, what I have to do. "I solemnly swear that I, Cecil Aradan, will stroke the Capitol's ego and get them to love us all over again."

"Don't be an idiot," Inara bats my hand away, laughing. "We can still kick you out."

"You wouldn't do that, now I'm here, you're stuck with me."

These two won't make me feel unwelcome, regardless of how they appear to the outside eye. They'll treat me like the family I've sometimes feared to ever start, and now will never have.

It's good to have somebody.

And I have that.

For how long, I don't know. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, because for right now I have my team. I have my friends.

* * *

**Jonah Griffin, 29 years old;  
District Nine Male.**

* * *

Amriel takes Art's hand and pulls her towards the sword station. "This way Art," she smiles, guiding the poor Victor along. She's going through a bit of a weird loop at the moment; yesterday it seemed a better day, but now when she says something it's like there's someone by your shoulder and she's talking to them.

Or, she just isn't there at all. She'll always smile, always tries to help, but give her a task to do without her impulsively setting out to do it and there's nothing behind those eyes that clicks with our words. I like Art, she's good person, there's not a malicious bone in her body which helps contribute to our unity.

But I don't like what she reminds me of, what I see in those eyes and actions and words.

I see myself. The side to myself that's impossible for me to accept.

I don't want to be broken.

So I fix myself, even if... even if it's not working.

"Amriel, do you actually know anything about swords?" I ask, smiling when she takes a proper second to stare at the weapons. When her eyes move back to me, she shrugs, brushing hair over her shoulder.

"Guess not."

"Eh, we'll work it out," I laugh, walking up to the pair of them. The trainer happily runs us through the basics of grip and stance, dedicating a larger amount of time with Art who can't quite hang onto the handle for very long. Amriel sidles up closer to me when we begin to hack away, taking small, quick stabs but never following through with proper lunges that can potentially kill an enemy.

"I don't like it Jonah," she says, sighing.

"I don't like it either." I take off the dummy's arm in one clear swoop, red cotton spewing out as if it were a jet of blood. Amriel scrunches her nose and takes a deep breath, looking over at me. "Whatever happens, we have to protect Art. She thinks she can look after us, but she... she can't..."

I look over Amriel's shoulder at Art who finally, with the trainer holding her hand alongside her movement, manages to puncture the dummy. She's mumbling too, under her breath at nobody, but she's doing it at least. No one should judge Art for what she does and how she acts, first without getting to know her, and second without trying to understand her situation.

That's what I like about our group, we care, we're committed, even if we know our chances are basically lowered all the way to zero. We do our best by one another.

"Do you want some help?" Amriel asks, staring at me. When I look back at her dummy, she seems to somehow have found her inner tribute, most of the dummy now cut to ribbons. Amriel's smile feels and looks real, another thing I appreciate about her company.

"No, no I'm fine." I shake my head, stabbing at the legs. Amriel takes another step, even when my hand starts to shake and beads of sweat roll down the bridge of my nose.

Something painful clamps round my throat, uninvited, intrusive. A pain thickening inside my skull.

"Jonah, if you need time out, or some he-"

"I'm fine!" I shout, slicing off another arm.

Almost within seconds, it's happened. The switch from watching my two friends, to feeling as if my veins are burning on fire. It's not her fault at all, they just come. The headaches bringing about the unstoppable agony. It feels impossible to get rid of.

Her fingers clamp down on my arm, and immediately I settle my eyes on her pretty face, lit up with a red flush.

"I'm so sorry..." she shakes her head, dropping her sword. "I am, I'm-"

"Jonah shut up, for once," she squeezes my hand and pulls me in for a hug. Everything protests against her act of kindness. It doesn't sit with me, feeling weak, crumbling underneath this pressure. Why can she act so strong and I can't? I do my best to be as accommodating as she does, and accept people for who they are, treat people with fairness and kindness.

And she never quits, she's always doing it in fear of what happens when she loses that part to her.

I'm already losing it. Through anger. Through fear.

I can't be the person I used to be.

"Seems to me your friend's the one who needs help."

Another voice, one that isn't part of our little group. Both of us immediately snap out of whatever trance we're in together and focus our attention on our interrupter. Aedric Surran steps towards us, small steps, pain twisting his features but no outward injury I can see.

Is he like us then... is he hurting on the inside, when there's nothing on the outside to show for it?

"Hey Aedric," Amriel immediately says, stepping forwards to extend a hand.

They shake, and when he directs his hand to me, I react the same way and grip it tightly. As hard as it might be with the pain pushing against the inside of my head, I smile warmly and invite him closer. If Amriel can do it, so can I.

People might think we're stupid, no barriers in place to protect ourselves, always trusting.

But Amriel doesn't seem to worry about things, her attitude is what I need in my life, even if I can't admit that to her because I have to be strong.

"Art's got some help," I smile, the three of us looking at Art who repeatedly cuts at the dummy without noticing Aedric's arrival. Maybe it would be polite of us to make it clear to her that Aedric is here, but there she is, staring without any ties to reality as she does what she'll have to do to help herself survive.

It's kind of sad, watching such a broken lady try to stay strong when it's impossible.

It's kind of sad how I do nothing but fight against who I am, hurting those around me, even innocent women like Amriel.

"I notice you three were in an alliance, and I..." Aedric pauses, despite his hesitance, we both know his intentions for being here. Some kind of shiver shakes him from head to toe, and the painful wrinkles in his forehead grow deeper, his mouth twisting into a frown.

"It's alright," Amriel holds onto his hand, like the so many times she did the same to me. I can almost feel her fingers wrapped in my own, we've been there for each other through everything. Pain, happiness, light and dark.

We're protecting Art.

We can protect Aedric.

"Could I join you three?"

I look at Amriel, silently sending thoughts between the pair of us. But we have an answer before we even have to make eye contact. Amriel nods and jumps straight to it, enveloping the poor man in an embrace.

"We'd love to have you."

And like that, we have another member.

Another broke piece to add to our already dysfunctional group. We function together, but we don't function individually.

That's what scares me, when three of us die and one of us is left, how will that person cope?

Amriel can smile it away, and I can try. But it'll always be there, haunting me, the thought of being alone again.

I don't handle my independence as well as I'd like to believe.

I need these three, I need what they give me.

I need them to stay alive.

I need the impossible to happen.

* * *

**Braelyn Lavelle, 25 years old;  
District Four Female.**

* * *

Astrea's first knife misses the target completely, skidding to a halt. I stare at her, then down at the knife, then back up at her face. I notice it, her bottom lip twitching, a sign of that repugnant self-doubt she hides underneath layer upon layer of lies. She isn't as good at this as she'd have us believe, or she's wavering, something on her mind that's keeping her from excelling.

Either way, it's good to see her knocked down a peg or two. Her incessant need to be known pushes her up on an imaginary pedestal, a construct of her warped mind. It's nice that the famous Miss Cartelle isn't as polished as her fans would have her be.

"It's rude to stare."

For a second, she looks at me from the corner of her eye. It hangs there, around her, even when she tries to hide it away and pick up another knife. She's trying so very hard to be perfect, that when she doesn't live up to it, she still carries on. I almost admire it.

She goes to throw another knife, and this time it lodges into the target a few red rings out from the middle. A triumphant smirk is back on her face, and when she turns to stare at me again, that sense of respect washes clean. She'll always be repulsive, I can't let myself feel good feelings towards her, because she's just one more obstacle. And I don't allow myself to let idiots in, especially girls like Astrea.

"You won, huh?" I smile, lifting up my second attempt at a throw, and hurtle it towards the target. Again, it's near perfect, and again Astrea stares at the shake in the metal, wincing at the vibration of the target. "Can't imagine how."

"Are you always this insulting to people who are on your side?"

I tut, shaking my head. "Honey, I appreciate what you're doing, but no one is on my side. There are allies and people who have your back for brief moments, a second, a minute, a week maybe. But it's an illusion. It's a fight with only one survivor, so don't paint yourself out to be my protector." I throw another knife and laugh when she recoils. "Because we all know you'd kill me the second it came down to it."

Despite myself, I register my heavy breathing and ball my fingers into fists. She gets to me, even when I try to push her out. Astrea throws another knife, then another, and another, unrelenting even when I continue to stare. With each throw, she gets marginally better, closer to a perfect hit.

"You're letting your desire to best me get the better of you, see what happens when I'm not throwing. You hit a target." I pick up a knife, twirl it once, and it slams into the center. "Now you."

When the blade sinks in deep, it's an inch to the left of her previous one. Astrea stares at me, raising an eyebrow.

"Told you."

"Alright then, what should I do?"

"Instead of letting what's going on around you get in the way, focus on what your goal is and just do it. People get so worked up about what it is they plan on doing, that they let all that enthusiasm stop them from actually doing it."

We throw in unison this time, timed perfectly. "And you've mastered this?"

I laugh, flinging some of my hair back over my shoulder. At least Astrea doesn't have to worry about that, one thing she has going for her over me. But the only thing. _Then why are you helping her? _I shake my head, dispelling those thoughts. Despite who and what she is, and where we are, she's still an ally. It would be hypocritical of me to be so uptight about knowing the truth to the Games, then for me to demonstrate that truth so early on. It's one thing I hate. Betrayal. I do it for the sake of survival, because dying is for the weak, but that doesn't mean I do it happily.

"We're both young girls, but the problem with you is you've never had to struggle in your life." Astrea raises a finger, opening her mouth to interrupt. I shake my head quickly, forcing her to hold her tongue and motion down towards the refilled rack of knives. Sighing and relaxing her shoulders, she picks up another one, and then nods for me to continue.

"You've never had to guard your emotions because you always have what you want regardless of what you're feeling. If you're happy, you get things. If you're sad, people make up for that lack of happiness by giving you more. Me, I didn't get anything no matter what I felt."

"So you... became a robot?" I sense her skeptical tone, but also notice how she turns to face me, honestly interested.

Maybe Astrea isn't as bad as I have her down. At the end of this all, I'll kill her and I won't stop myself. Because if Astrea really knew what this was, she'd stop her petty attitude and do the same to me. But she's naïve in a way, and strangely innocent. Something I can use, but also something that makes me want to... help her.

At least until helping her isn't an option.

"I became a Victor. I won because I didn't let my anger or tears or smiles or whatever it was I was feeling control me. I used it for my own benefit."

The trainer takes a moment to step out from his little booth, staring at us, then at the knives. He clears the targets and replaces them with new, polished ones. I nod my head with thanks, and turn back to Astrea, picking up a knife and putting the point to the tip of my finger.

"The hardest part here is that we know everyone. In our own Games, you were allies with the other Careers, but you didn't know them. And the outer districts meant nothing. Here, you have names to put to faces. And connections are what makes a person weak."

"But I-"

I shake my head and drop the knife, walking over towards Astrea. Her face is a red mess, because in that head, she's so confused about how she should act that she doesn't do things the smartest way. She doesn't see what she has, what being the youngest gives her.

"You have an advantage Astrea, more than anyone. I know Lennox, Atticus, Carson, even Avery. I know the others who walk around this room because we've shared horror stories, drinks and all sorts. You don't know anyone, not properly. You don't have those feelings towards us."

She stares at me, biting her bottom lip.

"Astrea, your lack of connection gives you your greatest strength. You try too hard to fix the one thing you have above us all."

She stares at me for one final time, and then down at the floor. She's so confused underneath everything. She has no idea how to live her life, because the way she has is the way she was taught too. She's a victim as much as we all are. A victim, inevitably, I have to take down.

_So why are you helping her?_

It's because I'm not the person everyone makes me out to be, because I put on who I am for the sake of making it one more day. And it's fair for Astrea to learn how to fix what she's doing if it means she has a fighting chance.

Maybe I've played dirty in the past.

Maybe I'll play dirty in the future.

But I'm not the same eighteen year old that won. Astrea deserves what I can help her with.

Even if under it all, I know she'll never change.

She'll want what she thinks is hers, when all she has to do is fight, and victory will come easier to her than it will for the rest of us. Because we have friends here. And friends get you killed.

* * *

**One more then we've reached the halfway point to these Capitol chapters... I hate the Capitol, just gonna put that out there.**

* * *

_**Favourite POV?**_

_**Which tributes stood out and why?**_

* * *

**Er, so the two day plan didn't work, and the excuse is... laziness! I'm not even going to promise an exact day for the next chapter, but I do want it out before next Thursday because from that day on I'm busy until around the 20th of July, so there won't be an update until then. So yeah I'd like to reach the halfway point by then.**

**Yeah, so only four more tributes to show and you'll have seen them all. With the next chapter there will be a poll so I'm looking forward to that as well. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Next up we finish with training and all the alliances will have come together! **


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